


Dark Lord Who

by Naidhe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-06-24 11:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15629688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naidhe/pseuds/Naidhe
Summary: Bellatrix Lestrange uses dark, sacrificial magic to bring the Dark Lord back to life after Harry Potter has given his life to defeat him. However, asking for a "Dark Lord" turns out to be a tad bit too ambiguous. Baba Yaga is having fun, Godelot is a sadistic bastard, Herpo the Foul brags about his horcrux, Tom Riddle is unimpressed. (Dark)





	1. A Dark Lord Bacchanalia

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: None of the characters in the Harry Potter universe belong to me. Any who are not mentioned in any of the books, or general folklore, do.
> 
> Warnings:
> 
> Dark fic, full of dark wizards and witches, murdering, maiming and generally spreading evil everywhere. No one here is good, no one here is a hero, Tom Riddle might be the sanest of them all. You have been warned.
> 
> I would also like to point out that I do not approve of some (most) of the actions of my characters, and that anything written here is from their point of view, and therefore not necessarily my own opinion. This especially refers to Tom's future relationship with Hermione, which is not how a healthy relationship should ever start.
> 
> Universe: This starts after a Battle of Hogwarts clearly gone wrong.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

**Dark Lord Who. Ch. 1: A Dark Lord Bacchanalia**

Hermione awoke at being rudely and uncaringly dragged through the floor, only to be dumped, her head hitting the hard stone in a loud thump that should have made her, at least, moan in pain. In her current hazy state, though, she barely produced a soft huff. A loud and shrill voice shouted, "Not the  _mudblood_ , you idiot!"

She tried to focus her eyes enough to see what was going on, but she didn't need to in order to know that the voice belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange. She was sure she would never be able to forget the sound of her, cackling like the demented woman she was, nor the pain of her  _cruciatus_.

Someone else was there, laying on the floor, a few meters away from her. Her vision was blurry, but she was sure that vibrant, dark red could be nothing but Ginny's hair. The other bulk –another person, she assumed– she could not distinguish clearly. "Are you sure this is going to work?" said a man, one of the Lestrange brothers, in a rough, tired voice.

"Do you have a better idea?" Bellatrix snapped viciously, and the man just went back to dragging the others into what seemed like a circle on the floor. "Leave that thing out," she ordered, and it took Hermione a few seconds to realize she must be talking about her. "Only Potter and the Weasley girl," she ordered.

It was a sign of how out of it she was that the sound of Harry's name, the knowledge that it was his body –his  _dead_  body– laying there, didn't prompt her to produce any outward sounds. Inside, though, she was crying; she had been since Harry's body had fallen to the floor along with Voldemort's.

"Aren't sacrifices usually… well,  _alive_?" the other Lestrange brother, the bigger one, asked dubiously.

"They have already sacrificed themselves!" the woman explained with little patience. "Potter gave his life away, and the girl died for him right afterwards. This sacrifice has meaning, it has  _magic_. Magic powerful enough to return the dead to life," she said, her voice excited with that childish tone it acquired when she was pleased.

Hermione could not even bring herself to care about their words. Everything was lost. Everyone was  _dead_. Who cared if they were trying to bring Voldemort –because who else would Bellatrix want?– back to life? She was dying too, anyway, barely holding onto the edges of her consciousness. She would soon be able to rest.

Bellatrix started chanting in a foreign language –she thought it sounded similar to Arabic, but she couldn't be sure– and the room slowly began to shine in a white light, brighter with every word that came out of her mouth. She seemed to be in a trance, head back, eyes shining and all those words and words coming out of her mouth as the air –the world– around them vibrated with energy.

Hermione felt her skin burn, her bloodied nose managed to pick out the smell of blood –fresh blood, not dry. She had learnt they smelt very differently– and of fire, and then everything went white.

* * *

Tom Riddle awoke to the smell of dry blood and the sound of heavy panting. He opened his eyes and slowly sat up, taking in the detail that he'd been laying on the cold stone floor. He took a look around and the sight made him raise his brows in surprise, which had not happened since… Since when? He could not quite picture  _when_  exactly he was. What had he been doing? What was the  _last thing_  he remembered? Because, he remembered; but his memories didn't seem to follow a particular order.

How interesting.

He was, he was tempted to say, in Hogwarts. Or at least in what looked like its ruins. The huge windows, he could identify as having belonged to the Great Hall. There wasn't much left of it now. To his left was the stone frame to the great door that had presided the room once, and to his right was… Well, stone, rubble and wood settled into a pile that reached the ceiling.

Around him was a circle drawn in splotches of blood. Right outside of it stood two men –old, ragged and dirty– dressed in black robes, and between them kneeled a woman that was gawking at him, crazy eyes peeking from between only slightly less crazy hair. At his side, within the circle, laid a young, dark-haired naked woman, skin fully covered in tattoos. Against the wall, a few meters away from them, was another girl in worn and dirty muggle clothes, who appeared to be –at least– half dead.

He looked down and observed that he, much like his in-circle companion, was unclothed.

"My… My Lord," the older, awake woman said tremulously, gazing at him as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

"Is it  _him_?" the bigger man said, in awe.

"Yes!" the woman screeched so loudly she almost startled him. "My Lord, we are your most loyal servants! All the rest left after the battle was over," she said in a furious voice, full of loathing, "but we stayed, my Lord! We brought you back!"

He frowned. Those people seemed to know him. The way they were calling him Lord fitted well with the name he had given himself. The woman scooted closer in a quick movement and showed him her arm; the Dark Mark he had designed not long ago –though who knew exactly when– imprinted on her skin. Ah, so they were his followers.

"You brought me back to life?" he asked, taking in the news that he –or future him, he supposed– must have died at some point.

The woman almost broke her neck in her haste to nod vigorously. He frowned in distaste. Such unstable followers he had gathered with the years. Where was Thanos Nott? Where was Abraxas Malfoy? Had they fled, as those three claimed?

The woman lying right by his side stirred slowly and sat up, moaning audibly, eyes surprisingly focused as she, too, looked around herself.

Tom glanced at his followers and the question in his hard eyes must have been clear, for they fidgeted uncomfortably under the weight of it. It seemed evident they ignored who the young woman was, too.

"Did you bring  _me_  back to life?" she asked curiously, head tilting to one side slightly too much to classify it as a natural gesture.

So, she had been listening.

"See," one of the men, the one that had kept quiet so far, whispered furiously. "I knew you didn't know what you were doing!" the woman glared at him, but he kept on. "There were  _two bodies_ , and now we revived someone else!"

The woman shook her head and snapped, "No! I asked for the  _Dark Lord_  to be brought back to life! Not for anyone else!"

The younger woman stood, uncaring about her state of extreme nakedness, and hummed happily. "I'm guessing this was an old  _Dilmun_  rite, I recognize this particular  _Akkadian_  dialect," she said while tracing the blood circle with her toes.

He could see now faint traces of cuneiform –Sumerian, he guessed from her words– carefully inscribed within the blood circle. " _Dilmun_ ," he said, "they specialized in necromancy."

"Your  _Akkadian_  is not very accurate," the younger woman told the older one. "You exchanged a ' _noble_   _sacrifice_ ' for the life of ' _The Dark Magician'_ ," she explained, humour clear in her voice.

"There were two sacrifices," he followed her reasoning, "and so, two Dark Magicians were brought back."

The woman knew what she was talking about. He'd been a good student, and Runes a very interesting subject, but his knowledge of old Arabian dialects was fairly limited.

"Sacrificial magic is so very hard to control," the young woman went on, slowly walking around the circle, careful to not step on the line as she read. "I'm surprised you managed to revive your intended target, to be honest. How many Dark Magicians are there in the known History of the Civilizations? And you put two sacrifices in a circle and one of them turns to work out?"

She was speaking as if in wonder, but the criticism weighed in her words. His followers weren't only unstable, but also quite uneducated.

"Potter was special!" the woman screeched once more, and one of his eyes twitched involuntarily. How loud. "We  _knew_  he was connected to our Lord!"

The young woman tilted her head once more and observed the others in silence. When it became apparent that she didn't intend to answer, he took over. "Potter?"

"Yes, My Lord," the woman almost injured herself in her haste to get back down on one knee. " _The Chosen One_ ," she said mockingly, "the one the Prophecy said was destined to vanquish you."

He wondered, not for the first time, if the woman just couldn't speak in a softer tone. Had the battle left her deaf, aside from daft?

"Seems like Potter managed," the naked witch commented merrily.

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. The older woman unsheathed her wand faster than he had ever seen anyone do, which very reluctantly impressed him, and threw a dark curse so quickly he barely had time to register which it was.

The younger one, though, just raised her hand and deviated the blast as if  _dismissing_  it, a light expression of discontentment in her face. She didn't seem to care for being attacked, a feeling with which he fully commiserated. She snapped her fingers in which surely were just unnecessary theatrics, and the older woman was set on fire.

The scream that followed was just as shrill as her voice had been, but much more satisfying. He found himself smiling as the dirty woman thrashed and howled profanities, unable to get the magical fire to stop eating her alive.

The two men glanced at him and, seeing humour in his face, stopped any attempts to save her. Loyal followers, they were, and at least quieter than the lunatic bint.

"Not fiendfyre," he observed lightly.

"Unnecessarily hard to control, and does the same as any other magical flame: burn," she explained, watching with a bored expression, and a furrow in her brow. She snapped her fingers once more and the screaming ceased, contained behind a silencing charm.

Well, he couldn't agree. Horcruxes would not be destroyed by any flame that was not fiendfyre. Speaking of horcruxes, had his soul come back –or forth, as he was clearly from the past– whole? He would have to find out.

The two men kept on watching the woman worriedly, as she had fallen to the floor without a sound and struggled much more feebly to free herself from the fire. One of them turned and would most likely have asked for permission to assist –which he wouldn't have given anyway, as the younger witch was clearly the ally to keep there– when he suddenly fell to the ground, mouth agape and eyes empty.

The other man, the big one, turned around quickly but not enough, as he, too, fell prey to a green ray of light.

Tom glanced at him as he fell and quickly darted his eyes toward the not-so-dead girl that had been laying against the wall. She was breathing hard, eyes clearly unfocused, wand pointing straight at him rather steadily. He raised one thin eyebrow in acknowledgement, and quickly tried to perform a wandless  _expelliarmus_ , that worked beautifully.

The girl did not even seem to register, or at least care, that she had been disarmed. She just lowered her arm and rested her head against the wall in abandonment. She seemed to have given up after that final act of –most likely– revenge.

The young, naked woman walked toward her and crouched down, most likely giving her a view that no young lady should feel comfortable with giving. "Impressive, for someone at death's very own door," she mumbled while studying her analytically. "Are you his follower too?"

The moribund girl actually snorted at that, which made the naked one chuckle. "Helped kill him then, I guess," she laughed happily.

He approached one of the dead men and took his outer cloak, patched it and scourgified it –something that he had vast experience in, coming from an orphanage, where clothes were rarely new– and, after some precise transfiguration, covered himself in his new robes. Just because the tattooed girl seemed fond of exhibitionism, he didn't need to share the fetish.

"Oh, such a pity," she commented, as if she had heard his thoughts. "You have a cute butt," she added almost as an afterthought, and wasn't looking at him when he turned to glare at her impudence. "Who are you?" she asked the girl then, curiosity once more in her voice.

The girl was quiet for such a long time he assumed she must have finally passed. "Just ignore her," he said. He had no use for dead people. The other woman though, as soon as she got dressed, might be useful.

"Tom… Riddle," she whispered then, eyes barely open, gazing in his general direction. He stilled and looked back, waiting for her to say anything else.

"The girl knows who you are," she said, "And she is bound to know more about what is going on that either me or you," she pointed out.

"Well, you  _did_  kill the other woman who knew what was going on," he felt the need to remark drily.

"And I did all of our eardrums a favour," she defended, unconcerned. "This one's quieter."

"This one's almost dead."

"Even more easily fixable than fully dead, don't you think?" she joked with a smirk, and he found himself joining her with a half-smile. She raised her hand lazily and the burnt woman's wand flew straight to it. "Wands have changed," she mentioned observing the wood with a critical eye, "Much more refined."

He raised his brows once more. How long had that woman been dead?

She waved the wand precisely and a yellowish glow surrounded the fuzzy-haired girl. Gashes in her face disappeared slowly, skin reattaching lazily and without a hurry. A few loud cracks were heard, which he assumed were her bones finding their rightful places. She left out a harsh gasp, and her lungs inflated fully, which probably meant her previous trouble breathing had been due to internal injuries.

That she had been able to perform two  _avadas_  in quick succession in that state was indeed quite a feat.

As colour returned to her face, her eyes opened with more certainty, and she stared in his direction in a fixated way that was unnerving. There was nothing in those eyes of her, just a blank look, devoid of any judgement. He wondered if she was broken.

"Your name?" she asked again, more insistently.

Once more they were met with silence for a long time. He was not a patient man, and was about to snap once more that they should just go, when she finally answered. "Hermione Granger."

"The Winter's Tale? Or the princess of Sparta?" he asked, curious.

"My mother always loved Shakespeare," the defiance in her tone made him smirk once more. Maybe she was unbroken still.

"Muggleborn," he noted, and she did not deny it. Well, that clearly explained why she'd killed his followers.

"I have no idea what you people are talking about," the other woman mentioned with a pout. "Are my translation spells not working properly?"

"When was the last year you remember?" he asked.

"1235."

He raised both his brows, and the girl on the ground gasped. "1945," he answered in turn. She whistled loudly. "I doubt you can understand our cultural background," he pointed out.

They both turned to the other girl expectantly and she frowned, clearly not wanting to give an answer. "Do  _not_  be difficult now," the tattooed woman demanded. "Don't make us torture you for information we'll end up finding out easily," she reasoned.

The other girl frowned but did not complain. She looked tired, and not at all like what she needed was a round of  _crucios_.

"1998," she offered grudgingly.

Fifty years, more or less, then. No wonder he had not recognized his followers. He wondered what exactly had happened, when his older self died. He wondered even more  _how_  he had died. Had his horcruxes been found and destroyed? Had he managed to make all seven of them?

"What just happened here?" the woman kept on.

"War," she answered. "Against  _them_ ," she snarled with the first hint of real feeling she had displayed until the moment.

"For?"

"Blood purity," she said in distaste.

The naked woman blinked, confused. "What is that?"

"Distinction between  _purebloods_ , whose ascendants are all wizards, and  _muggleborns_  or  _mudbloods_ , who were birthed by muggles," he explained.

"We had no such words," the woman said. "Why would anyone fight a war about something so foolish?"

"It has always been important in Britain," he answered. "Though this one was fought for the same reason all wars are," he pointed out. "For power."

At that the woman nodded in understanding. "You apparently lead this war?" she asked.

"Apparently," he conceded. "Though, if I died, and the man prophesized to kill me was used to revive me, I'm left wondering who won."

"No one," the girl said from the ground. "They're all dead."

"Power void then," he acknowledged. "These followers of mine that apparently left, they might have fled to take it," he guessed. "Or maybe some surviving friend of yours?" he asked the girl.

She shook her head vehemently.

"When you say  _they are all_  dead," the other woman started pensively, "about how many people would we be talking about? People that died in  _noble self-sacrifice_ , I mean."

The girl furrowed her brows at the question, and he found himself intrigued. She seemed to be going somewhere.

"Many. I don't know, there were so many students…" she said in confusion. She seemed to be still shaking off the after effects of severe shock.

"Young lives are always most effective when dealing with sacrificial magic," she commented. "When you say many, you mean many around one hundred or many around one thousand?" she insisted.

The girl swallowed and thought harder, "I – I guess about one hundred, maybe? More than fifty? I don't know."

"Did you confound her?" he asked, surprised at her newfound willingness to provide information.

"Not really. Severe head trauma can lead to the same kind of behaviour," she explained. "I assume it's making her more talkative."

He nodded. "What are you getting at?"

"Ah, well," she commented, standing to talk to him closer to eye-level. "It's just that the circle they used wasn't a containment circle. Whether we were inside or outside of it, shouldn't have mattered at all," she mentioned.

He felt both his eyebrows raise in surprise. "You mean… All these sacrifices…?" he started.

She nodded. "For every noble sacrifice, a  _Dark Magician_  reborn, I'd expect. The air feels dense with leftovers of ritualistic magic; I don't think the extent of the spell was limited to this particular room."

The young girl, still sprawled on the floor, gasped and tried to sit up more firmly against the wall. "You mean there could be about  _a hundred_  Dark wizards going around Hogwarts?" she said in a strangled and horrified voice.

"And witches," she pointed out with pride.

The girl, Hermione, raised to her feet with visible effort. "Why are you so young?" she asked him, now more coherent. The healing magic seemed to be taking effect quickly.

He had to admit he didn't know. "I assume I'm seventeen," he started, as it was the last he remembered being within his disordered memories. He looked at the other girl, waiting for some insight.

"I'm sixteen," the naked woman mentioned. "Was that the age of the sacrifice?" she asked Hermione, and the girl paled very visibly, but nodded. "Then that must be it; the younger and livelier the sacrifice, the longer you have left to live. It fits the spell," she said, pointing toward the circle.

"We should move," he said. "If your intuition is correct, there might be other people around."

The woman nodded and headed toward the open exit. He looked at Hermione with a critical eye. She might be a good source of information until they learned enough to venture exploring further out into the outside world. The girl must have guessed his intentions correctly, because she seemed to brace herself against the wall, as if she could actually escape him that way.

He smiled at that and pointed at her with her own wand. "Do I  _really_  have to force you?" he asked softly, and the girl swallowed, but was smart enough to shake her head and trudge after the naked one, out of the room. Good thing she could walk on her own, she might still be worth keeping alive.

"You will have to update me in Dark Wizard history," naked woman mentioned. "Many might have come after me."

"Who are you, anyway?" Hermione asked rudely, clearly recovering from her previous state of dazedness.

"Oh, forgive my rudeness. I didn't even introduce myself. I am Yagaratea, daughter of Ježi."

Hermione stilled at the exact same moment as himself. That timeline, that name… "Baba Yaga?!" the girl exclaimed, as he goggled like a fool.

Yagaratea turned around and frowned at them both. "What would you call me  _old woman_ Yaga for? Do I look  _old_  to you?" she protested.

They glanced at each other in an unexpected moment of comradeship. It was not every day that you met the  _most feared_  witch recorded in wizarding history, after all. Baba Yaga, Russian Hag famous for eating children alive for breakfast, used since times immemorial to scare little kids into behaving, said to have lived up to the age of four-hundred and three.

That  _ally_  might unexpectedly turn out to be a double-edged sword.

* * *

Hermione trudged with difficulty, knowing Tom Riddle had her at wand point and Baba Yaga –actual bloody  _Baba Yaga_!– was right in front of her, and had already threatened torture. She didn't feel like being tortured, to be honest. She had seen everyone she cared about die for the cause, and so, what cause was left now? Better to just follow those two around for the moment, and at least avoid physical pain, if possible.

They stopped suddenly, and she almost collided with the other woman. She side-stepped to see what was holding them, and saw the dead body of Lucius Malfoy sprawled on the floor. Well, maybe death did make everyone equal; who would have ever guessed the man could be so graceless?

"This is the first one," the woman mentioned. Hermione frowned, wondering at her meaning.

"We have walked for at least five minutes," Riddle seemed to agree on whatever it was they seemed to have noticed. "There should have been more."

Both turned to look at her, and she blinked foggily. What?

"Dead bodies," Riddle explained impatiently, "should there not have been more?"

Oh. Oh, yes. Definitely more. She nodded. "Lucius Malfoy was not one for noble self-sacrifice," she commented, finally grasping what was going on.

Tom Riddle nodded in understanding. "It seems likely that we aren't the only people to have come back from the  _dead_ ," he said in distaste.

Hermione swallowed at the thought of  _more_  of them. The world had quite literally just turned into Hell.

They kept marching, away from the now blocked entrance to the Castle, in search of an exit. The other two had briefly debated blowing up the rubble barricade, but had deemed it too risky. The Castle's structural building might be too unstable, and suddenly collapse on them.

As they advanced they found more and more lifeless bodies sprawled on the floor. Death Eaters and students alike painted the old stone halls in blood, their deaths not noble enough to be deemed worthy of bringing forth new life. Tom Riddle took their wands one by one and  _felt_  them, unsatisfied for the moment. Hermione was quite vexed that  _her_  wand was working best for him, in comparison. Yaga seemed pleased with Bellatrix's wand, which was a terrifying thought in itself.

As they headed toward one of the inner patios, which still lead outdoors judging by the light filtering through, a sudden movement to their left startled her. She reached for a wand she didn't have anymore, and panicked at its loss. However, her companions were both fast and talented.

Theodore Nott stood against an old tapestry, wand in hand but hands above his head. He was surrendering. His face was paler than she'd ever seen it. He stared at Tom Riddle as if he knew precisely who he was.

"Who are you?" Riddle asked, eyeing him with curiosity and, perhaps, a hint of recognition.

"Theodore Nott," he barely managed to whisper, terror tinting his words. "My Lord," he added, in a rush.

Riddle observed him critically –perhaps pleased– before disarming him with ease. He tried his wand, frowned, and threw it back at him. Nott struggled to catch it, display at which Riddle raised an eyebrow, mockingly.

"Let's keep him," Yaga said, giving him a once-over. Nott seemed to notice her for the first time and his eyes went wide as saucers at the sight of a  _very_   _naked_  young woman. He averted his eyes too quickly for his discomfort to remain hidden, and Yaga chuckled.

Riddle nodded. "We'll stay at Nott Manor," he informed him. "After I've fetched a wand from Ollivander's. Can you side-along her to Diagon Alley?" he asked Nott, pointing at her with a sharp jerk of his head. The boy rushed to say yes and make himself useful.

They went out and walked among rubble and broken stone all the way until the edge of Hogwarts' premises. Behind them, within the Castle, they could hear noise and see the lights of a battle rekindled.

"I'd say some of  _the others_  have met," Yaga smirked in pleasure.

"Let them wipe each other out," Riddle suggested. "Let's get out of here."

"Side-along  _me_ ," Yaga asked Nott coquettishly. He glanced away in visible awkwardness. "You take the girl. Let's make sure we  _keep_  them," she told Riddle.

Hermione frowned at being talked about like some  _pet_ , but soon she felt Riddle's firm grip on her arm and the familiar twist of apparition.

* * *

Theodore Nott sat down on the floor next to Hermione Granger, who was the most welcome company in the present circumstances. Just that thought made him feel ill. Tom Riddle was trying wand after wand among the  _thousands_  stored within the dusty, old shop. It looked like they could be in there for a while. His eyes darted once more toward the other young girl, and he swallowed, feeling his cheeks burn. She was observing the discarded wands with a keen interest.

"What  _the fuck_  is going on?" he asked her. Granger looked half-dead, but her eyes sparkled still.

She looked back at him and just snorted and shook her head. He gathered it was  _complicated_. He insisted. "That's  _him_ , isn't it?"

Granger nodded. "How do you know?"

He shrugged, but still answered. She had information he wanted to know, after all. "My father keeps old pictures of his school days." They stayed in silence for a few minutes, the sound of Tom Riddle cursing in the background. "He  _died_. I saw him  _die_ ," he whispered furiously. He'd been happy when his monstrous body had hit the floor. Theodore was not made for war.

" _Bellatrix_  revived him," she said with fury. He groaned. The thing just couldn't stay dead.

"And who's that – that woman," he said, pointedly avoiding to look in her direction. Granger smirked, making fun of him. He flushed brighter.

"Baba Yaga," she announced, and he could see she was  _enjoying_  breaking the news. Who would have thought Granger had it in her to be cruel?

Before he could decide whether to be offended at the stupid joke or terrified at the possibility of her words being true, the woman returned.

"He's so  _picky_ ," she complained. "They all work  _much better_  than the ones I'm used to." She crouched in front of them, and he couldn't help but gasp at the sight. Why on earth weren't they at Madam Malkin's getting the woman something to wear? "Girl, tell me about this war. I want to understand who's in power now."

Granger stuttered and tried to give a brief summary of Wizarding Britain's political situation. Still, telling who was in power at the moment wasn't easy. Probably no one yet. In a matter of hours, most likely various factions.

A series of click-clack-clacking noises drew their attention toward the door. A man broke through Riddle's warding with apparent ease and entered the shop in confident strides. His eyes fell on the three of them and he smirked, showing rotting, ugly teeth.

"Brats," he said, his voice a nasty rasp. "Aren't you a  _pretty_  sight," he leered. He locked the door behind him, new wards raising windlessly at his command, and he approached them. "Let's have some  _fun_ , shall we, little girls?" His wand was drawn, a wood as ugly and crooked as himself.

_Baba Yaga_  –if Granger was to be trusted, which he doubted– didn't bother standing up, fixing the newcomer with a bored glare. Granger, though, tensed at his side. That seemed to please the wizard.

"Oh, be afraid, girlies. I like to play  _rough_ ," he growled, licking his lips, sending a shiver down Theodore's spine.

"Oh, for Salazar's sake, would you  _deal_  with that?" came Riddle's voice from behind the shelves. "I can't focus around the thought of such vulgarity."

The man tensed and raised his wand toward the voice, but was only startled when Baba Yaga laughed –cackled– and stood in one smooth move. He sneered and relaxed at catching a glimpse of Riddle, checking that he was in fact just another teenager.

"I thought you were giving  _me_  the attention," she purred, displeased. It was clear the man considered the boys a bigger threat.

He might have wanted to answer, but before he had the chance a handful of discarded small drawers shot up toward him at incredible speed, catching him by surprise. The girl had not even moved.

He waved his wand and they turned to fine dust mid-air. Yaga snapped a finger and the dust caught on fire, blinding them all, but not reaching the wizard under his protective shield. "Little bitch," he snarled. "You dare to try and duel Raczidian?"

Granger gasped. He, too, knew the name. A dark wizard, famous for having allegedly failed at casting a Patronus. He could believe the man had not a single pure thought in his filthy mind. That was the third supposedly back-from-the-dead person of the day, and Theodore started to think that something must have gone very, very wrong.

The wooden floor below the wizard's feet splintered and broke into single slats, which quickly tried to climb though his legs and crush them. The man apparated a few feet back with a loud crack and turned the slats into snakes, which rushed toward the girl, only to be turned into a rabble of black butterflies. The insects flew from all sides at high speed and he managed to smother most within a cloud of green mist, but a few survived and slashed his skin thinly before perishing.

The flashy display of fireworks proved to be mostly a distraction, as the man had shot a nasty curse through the mist that  _felt_  dark even from that distance. She sidestepped with agility to avoid it, as a flock of pointy wands were shot from behind the wizard, impaling themselves with ferocity on his summoned wooden block.

Theodore was impressed at the woman's prowess. She must have been as young as himself, while the man was easily in his early forties.

Baba Yaga swiped her wand quickly and fired three dark spells he couldn't recognize, while  _accoing_  the wooden block behind the man. Distracted by the impact of his own summoned wood, he avoided the spells with difficulty, barely deflecting the last one. He threw an easily recognizable  _avada_ , followed by something much more obscure, that caused the girl's hair to set on a dark, vicious fire, despite her shield.

She snarled and raised her wand, a whispered counter-course on her lips. The fire on her head went off, leaving only the ends of her hair charred. She started a chant in a language that sounded very old, every word out of her mouth leaving a tingling sensation on Theodore's skin. She threw one vicious curse after another, which he parried, matching her speed. One of them impacted a shelf after deflection and left it a melting gooey, smelly mess.

Theodore could tell she had finished the chanted incantation through the finality of the last word. A quiet power settled over them all, a vibration in the air that promised danger. The man suddenly seemed nervous.

The shop shook with dark magic and, very slowly, the shadows casted by the worn lights all around lazily moved, raised and reached forward. They became longer, and thinner, and made their way toward the wizard. He tried two or three obscure spells on them, but the darkness was unyielding. Raczidian opted to try and curse the caster once more, thinking killing her would stop the magic.

Curse after curse was stopped flawlessly as the shadows grew closer and closer. He soon found himself cornered against the wall, franticly shooting away. In his desperation, he aimed at Granger and himself with a furious snarl. Theo barely had time to murmur a rushed  _protego_ , taken by surprise. It was enough to stop the blunt of the curse, though they were blasted away a few feet, becoming a fumbling mess of limbs and dirt.

As he coughed and fought against the itching pain in his eyes, he heard the painful howl of a man being devoured alive by hungry shadows. He managed to see, behind the curtain of raised fine dust, a lonely hand twitching as it was being dragged within the void. And at last, silence.

Tom Riddle appeared, handsome features twisted in a displeased scowl, "The first one. We can only expect there to be more." He appraised the witch critically. He'd used the conflict to analyse her, apparently.

There was a dark, long, new wood in his hand and a few more in his pockets. He threw one at Granger, which the witch caught in surprise. "Behave," he cautioned, "for I have little patience." She nodded, but he personally doubted she would.

He addressed him this time and he fidgeted under his heavy gaze. "Can you let us in past the wards?" Theodore nodded. He'd seen his father die with his own eyes. The Manor was his. "Then lead the way. We have  _much_  to talk about," he added, glancing back at Granger, who was busy going after the wand that had fallen from Raczidian's hand.

He thought he'd heard her whisper a soft "Remus" as she cradled the wood in her arms. "Are we running a wand shop now?" Baba Yaga asked, eyeing Granger in confusion. "If so, I'm dreadfully devoid of material." She non-verbally  _accioed_  a few extra wands and shoved them in  _his_  pocket, given how she owned none.

Riddle held the door open and bowed slightly, with a single "Ladies" that left him confused at his sudden politeness. Granger went out after Baba Yaga and Riddle addressed him, scowl once more in his face, "I hope there are some witch gowns in Nott Manor. We look  _ridiculous_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ijoan for noticing my careless mistake, this was edited with the correction.


	2. A Lesser Evil

**Dark Lord Who. Ch. 2: A Lesser Evil**

The four of them sat in a modest parlour that gave to the back gardens of Nott Manor, which was much more luminous than any of the main sitting rooms. The Nott boy –Theodore, this one– had managed to put his main new ally into a dressing robe. He couldn't say she looked proper, though, given the ridiculously low cut of her cleavage or the obviousness of her lack of brassiere.

The half-dead girl –Hermione Granger, he reminded himself– had also changed out of her torn and dirty muggles rags. The unhealthy thinness and the hollow emptiness in her gaze would take longer to fix; but in clothes that were of good quality, he was pleased to see she looked halfway decent. Tom knew people judged you for the company you kept. While they still made a funny mix, at least now they didn't look like they'd come straight out of a whorehouse.

He'd changed too, of course. Male robes had evolved less than female ones, but he'd still taken old ones from Thanos' room, which he was more familiar with. All in all, they now could almost pass for distinguished young wizards and witches of quality.

"From what you tell us," started Yagaratea, playing with her dark wand, her bare legs peeking from under her gown as she laid on the couch next to Theodore, "your  _Ministry_  was governed by  _Death Eaters_  until yesterday." She threw him an amused glance and he scowled. The damned witch had laughed for a whole minute at learning the name he himself had chosen for his followers.

"Most likely it still is," he took over in irritation. "Compared to the whole population of wizarding Britain, your war was on an extremely small scale. Only Death Eaters against a resistance movement."

"The Order of the Phoenix," Miss Granger interrupted.

He acknowledged the information with a nod. "Most people woke up this morning and went to work, not noticing a change. There's no Dark Lord, but their Minister and the ones who control him –some of them– remain the same. Most likely," he added at the end, cautious.

"But there  _is_  a Dark Lord," Yagaratea corrected, licking her lips. "Several, in fact."

"And here lays the problem," he agreed. "If it were only  _us_ , then I'd be confident in my predictions. But now any form of organized government must deal with an unexpectedly large number of dark wizards gallivanting around. Do they have the forces to deal with that? Can the general populace survive this? Those are the important questions."

"What would you say?" Yagaratea asked their main sources of information.

The girl's gaze still looked empty and uncaring as she answered, but as long as she provided he couldn't care less. "It depends on how many there are, I'd say. The Death Eaters controlled the Ministry, which includes the Aurors. Most weren't in the battle, so their whole forces should have remained practically intact. I don't see why they wouldn't be operating with normality. Though I can't predict how they might have reacted to knowing of the battle itself. Mourning, perhaps? Plenty of children were lost –" she seemed to be at a loss for words for a second, then took a deep breath and regained her composure. "The Ministry might be in some level of disarray because of it. But depending on the number of threats they must deal with, they might manage." Or not, was implied.

Tom was pleased with her analysis. It seemed she had understood where to place her bets in order to survive, and was finally cooperating fully. "True, we can't know how many were brought back. Nor how many have already  _dealt_  with each other. Our main weakness now is a lack of knowledge."

"A weakness everyone shares," Yagaratea pointed out. True. That was good.

"Our best bet is to remain hidden and try to gather information. If most dark wizards are like our friend Raczidian, they'll flashily inform us of their presence among the living."

"The ones we should fear," noted Yagaratea with an amused grin, "are the ones that will remain hidden."

She was right. Fear not the battle in front of you, he thought, but the silence behind your back. The dangerous ones would mimic their own actions, and wait for the perfect chance to strike.

"When a wizard or witch is born," Hermione interrupted unexpectedly, "their name is inscribed into the Book of Admittance by the Quill of Acceptance. In Hogwarts," she clarified. "Could it happen too, if one's reborn?"

Tom frowned, considering her idea. It was an original suggestion. He found himself smiling despite his first assessment of the girl. Yagaratea had been right in wanting to keep this one alive. "The purpose of the Quill is to write the name of a child that exhibits the first sign of magic," he noted. "We are hardly children, Miss Granger."

She nodded. "The Quill can tell a person's first sign of magic. Can it tell whether it's a child's or not? Clearly, it knows  _you_  have used magic before. I don't think  _your_  name will appear twice in the Book. But if someone appears out of nowhere and exhibits a sudden sign of magic, the very first one, how is the Quill to know it's not a birth? Maybe it can tell the age of the wizard," she conceded. "Maybe it can't."

Tom supposed the Quill had not necessarily been designed to take this specific form of revival into account. It might be worth a try. From her couch, Yagaratea looked displeased. Her translating spells were probably unable to keep up with such a specific conversation. "Theodore, please explain this properly to the lady afterwards." The woman had no surname, and calling her Miss Yagaratea didn't sound right. He struggled to find the most adequate way to address her.

"We still wouldn't know which ones are dead again," the boy said. "Among the revived ones."

"Well noted," he praised him. It was always good to encourage initiative and analytical thinking among followers. "But it's a step."

"If the Ministry has not fallen, the  _Prophet_  might be a source of information. Albeit biased," Miss Granger said with distaste.

"They might want to keep the whole 'we now have a hundred Dark Lords' thing a secret. They've been known to do it before," Theodore added.

"Maybe they'll be unable to," Hermione countered. He agreed with her. Throw another Raczidian into Diagon Alley, and people would talk. The Ministry might prefer to sell the news that they were killing some, at least. Of course, the  _Prophet_  still couldn't be trusted to report the whole truth.

"We could use some time to let the situation outside stabilize. It also wouldn't hurt to familiarize ourselves more with the current epoch. I, at least, have a lot to digest." Yagaratea said as she stood up. She snapped her fingers in Theodore's direction and the boy flinched, standing after her. "I'm sure you have a library hidden somewhere within this castle of yours. I need to do some reading."

Theodore nodded and guided her out of the room. It was problematic, Tom thought, that the hierarchy within their small group was not well stablished. However, with that witch as an opponent, he didn't dare claim leadership. He wasn't confident he could win a duel against her. That was a first.

As Yagaratea lacked interest in the other witch, though, Tom could claim her as his without worry. She wasn't the ideal follower, given how she'd actually fought for the other side, but beggars couldn't be choosers. At least she was making herself useful.

* * *

Hermione tensed when the other two left the room, leaving her alone with Tom Riddle.

After the confrontation with Raczidian she had a much better grasp on her current situation. She was  _screwed_.

She felt lost. What was she supposed to do now? What should she fight for? She didn't think anyone else had made it out alive from that flaring inferno of a battle. Even if  _someone_  had, she had no means to contact them. She'd never been much of a leader. The idea of going out to fight any random dark wizard when she had no one left to protect was unappealing. She missed Harry dearly; he would have found a cause to fight for and go on. He would have given her purpose.

She fought to control the tears that stung her eyes. She refused to cry in front of Lord Voldemort, teenager or not.

All that she knew  _for sure_  was that, out there, were a bunch of psychos. True, inside the manor there was a bit more of the same; but at least those two psychos hadn't yet shown an inclination for sexual assault. Well, not toward her, at least.

The smart option was to stay put. Frightening as the thought was, a known Dark Lord was better than the  _outside_. She'd already been persecuted, starved, tortured and now left adrift in an empty world. She'd take Tom Riddle and a warm place to sleep in –with  _hot_  showers– over the  _outside_.

"Miss Granger," he said, breaking her train of thought. "Milk and sugar?"

She swallowed with trepidation at the sight of the young man preparing her tea. His politeness only served to unnerve her. She wondered if that was his intention, or if the need for courtesy sprung from somewhere else. "Just the milk, please." She instinctively knew she needed to return the courtesies if she wanted to survive. She wondered if this was the way a gazelle felt in front of a lion. Or should she use a mouse and snake for her metaphor?

The cup levitated toward her, along with a plate containing white bread sandwiches. She supposed there must be house-elves around.

"I need you to answer a few extra questions, if you don't mind." She very much minded, but wasn't suicidal enough to point it out. "First of all, congratulations." She raised her head in surprise at that, meeting his eyes. He smirked and passed along a dirty poster. Her picture –hair wild and eyes fierce– looked back at her and snarled, under the large, bold letters that read 'Undesirable No. 2'. "You seem to have gotten quite far under the skin of Old Me."

Hermione supposed he'd picked it up during their trip to Diagon Alley. "Such a big achievement, for a  _mudblood_ ," she said, taking her eyes off her fierce picture and sipping her hot tea. She didn't think he'd poisoned it with anything. He probably didn't need to in order to get the truth from her.

Tom Riddle laughed at that, a clearly practiced sound, but still it felt warmer than her tea. The way his brows lifted in surprised amusement, the way his lips curved in a sideways grin, the way his eyes shone with merriment… Her mouth went dry. She understood now why people had gone to war for that man.

"Indeed, Miss Granger. You see, Theodore updated me a bit on the latest events. I understand now the need Old Me felt to stop  _Harry Potter_. But why would a  _muggleborn_  witch be so very high up on the wanted list? The Ministry would have been acknowledging your power a bit too much for their liking, wouldn't they?" Hermione didn't miss how he'd chosen to use the more politically correct term. She also remembered him stating the war had been fought for power, and not blood purity. "Well, my guess is that you were with him. Doing whatever it was that you did to stop Old Me." Hermione still didn't answer. "Theodore is also of the opinion that out of the  _three_ , you were the  _brains_. So Miss Granger, pray tell, how did you find my Horcruxes?"

She had not expected such a direct question. Maybe she was still in shock, maybe she was too naïve; but she'd though he wouldn't quite jump there so quickly. She hesitated. Should she answer? The information was unlikely to be  _helpful_  to him. The horcrux hunt was in the past, and whatever horcruxes were in his future would not be in the same objects. Still, the idea of meekly following his order just to satisfy his curiosity was grating.

He sighed audibly in what were clear theatrics. "Miss Granger, please don't make this unpleasant on yourself. I could use Legilimancy, but I assure it can be quite  _tough_  on the mind."

Her fingers curled with a bit more strength around the handle of her cup. Her mind might be a bit fuzzy at the moment, but at least she'd been right about him not needing to drug her drink.

"And don't lie now, Miss Granger. I'll eventually find out."  _And you won't like the consequences_ , was left unsaid.

Their eyes locked again and she recognized a clear threat. She wondered if a teenager could truly be that imposing, or if she was overlapping his image with the knowledge of what he would become.

She had been well and truly defeated,  _put in her place_ , barely a few hours ago. But his arrogance, his patronizing look of fake sympathy… She felt they rekindled the fire within her. He wanted the truth? Then she would provide.

"Lucius Malfoy  _gave_   _us_  the first one," she said, and took another sip of her tea while appreciating the impact of her words. He twitched –very slightly, but it was there– and she felt slightly vindicated. His reaction emboldened her. "He slipped your diary into an eleven-year-old's cauldron in an attempt to set the  _beast_  free. In his defence, he didn't know what it was. Maybe you should have told him?" she suggested in an innocent tone she'd last ever heard on Lavender Brown. She knew first-hand how irritating it was.

Riddle had reacted to her change of attitude first with surprise and then with irritation. Gone was his falsely easy-going attitude and relaxed posture. He'd disliked her last suggestion, eyes now narrowed and cup of tea abandoned. "Did he?" he asked in a very, very neutral tone. "Set the beast free?"

"Yes," she conceded, and his lips twitched into a half-smile. Before he could ask for any details, she added, "Too bad Harry stabbed the diary with a Basilisk fang before anyone was killed. He was  _twelve_ , then. That was the first one he destroyed." She smirked when his nostrils flared in poorly repressed anger. The man was proud, it was easy to see. Learning of his multiple failures to get rid of Harry would agitate him. She had the perfect chance to take him down a peg or two. It felt a bit like punching Draco Malfoy in the nose again. "This is also how Dumbledore knew for sure the secret to your immortality."

Riddle regarded her in silence. His eyes, dark deep pools of pitch blackness, shone with an intensity that warned her to be careful. Every single muscle in his body, every shift and expression wrinkle in his handsome features was frozen rigid. Strangely, though, she felt she had a  _power_  over him now. The power to control how he felt, by choosing how to deliver the news he craved. It made him seem more human. It made her fear him less.

"The second one?" he asked after the stretched silence, voice rougher in a rasp that was oddly appealing.

Hermione relaxed on her cosy, most likely ridiculously expensive armchair, and  _enjoyed_  her meal. "The ring. That's the same order in which you created them, isn't it?  _Poetic_."

"Miss Granger, I've already advised you once not to try my patience." His voice sounded like December wind, fluid and cutting and  _so very cold_. She felt herself shiver under the strength of his gaze, and controlled the urge to break eye contact.

"Dumbledore destroyed it himself. He used the Sword of Gryffindor, which acquired the necessary properties when Harry used it to kill the Basilisk." She carried on through sheer Gryffindor bravado. Maybe there was no need to openly make fun of him. The story itself would be aggravating enough.

"A twelve-year-old killed a Basilisk with a  _sword_?" he almost stuttered, shaken, for once his perfect composure lost. She could see incredulity dancing in his eyes as he decided whether to believe her or not.

Hermione shrugged. "Harry," she said, as if it were explanation enough. Riddle scowled, clearly unsatisfied. "The rest, I assume you don't know about." She felt herself smirk once more. She was playing a dangerous game, but she was feeling reckless. She toyed with the limit of his tolerance and found herself enjoying it. Adrenaline rushed through her veins and she felt alive for the first time since Harry had died.

"Do proceed, Miss Granger. I'm curious," Riddle said, regarding her now with renewed respect but icier demeanour. She wondered if it was a favourable change. "What other great feats were accomplished by  _Harry Potter_? Did he kill a nundu with a gobstone? Maybe rob Gringotts with a yo-yo?"

She chuckled at his irritation, surprised he'd chosen to take it with some sarcastic humour. She could not wait to tell him about how they had, indeed, robbed Gringotts. "The third one was Slytherin's Locket."

His eyes shone bright at the mention; this time there was a stronger emotion dancing in them. "The locket," he repeated, raw feeling in his voice. He hadn't moved an inch, and yet his projected image was completely different. This was a perturbed man, in front of her. One shaken with a mixture of anticipation, anger and grief.

She knew she had to proceed with more care. "Family heirloom," which he must have known. She thought his uncle, Morfin Gaunt, had told him of Merope taking it with her. "You got it from Hepzibah Smith, who bought it from Borgin and Burkes."

"And where did  _he_  get it?" he asked, voice low in quiet fury. She could feel the hairs on her arms raise with the waves of his magic. The air was charged, thick, heavy with static.

She swallowed, guessing he only wanted a confirmation of something he already knew. Or at least strongly suspected. "Merope Gaunt," she said, not daring to utter the words ' _your mother'_. "She sold it to him when she was in need of money."

Riddle closed his eyes and she could swear she saw him tremble. She opted to be quiet as he fought to recompose himself. She spared him the humiliation of noting that Burke had given her almost nothing for it, and left her to die, pregnant and alone. She liked to believe part of the reason was compassion. A bigger part was survival instinct.

When he opened them again he looked more like a teenager than she'd even seen him look. His eyes were shining with the thinnest layer of water, though it was  _rage_  that had created those tear seeds. His lips were parted as he breathed hard, and his face was flushed. She had the brief, traitorous thought that he was  _handsome_. Not in the aristocratic, almost albino way of the Malfoys; nor in the wild, exotic perfection of Blaise Zabini. He was more relatable, with his dark curls and dark eyes and creamy skin. His defining characteristics were average –all dark brown– and yet every single one of his features was  _perfect_.

"And Harry Potter destroyed it," he guessed in a whisper, startling her.

She flushed, condemning herself for her  _ogling_ , and payed attention to the conversation. "Ron did," she corrected him. "With the sword of Gryffindor."

"Who's Ron?" he wanted to know, and then added, "Dumbledore gave it to him?" it was only half a question.

Hermione shook her head. "Professor Dumbledore was dead by then," she said. "And Ron was the third one in our group." She felt there was no need to go into details about who Ron had been. Speaking about him to this man felt like sacrilege.

As expected, only the first bit of information drew his attention. He sat straighter and he couldn't manage to hide the eagerness in his voice as he asked, "Who killed him?"

"Severus Snape." Hermione licked her lips in anticipation, satisfied with how the conversation was going. "One of your Death Eaters." Tom Riddle recovered part of his confident demeanour. He sank back into his couch, and briefly relaxed in a show of satisfaction. Now, she couldn't have that. "He betrayed you, though. You killed the woman he loved, and he turned. He killed Dumbledore on his own orders. He played you for years, yet he  _always_  loved her."

She thought she probably should not be feeling such pleasure at  _crushing_  his delight. It was a dangerous feeling. Tom Riddle looked like his patience was, as he'd predicted, wearing thin.

Frown marring his perfect brows, he demanded to know, "Why did Dumbledore order his own death?"

Hermione took on a similar expression. She guessed he would like this part. "A curse left him injured when he procured the ring. Potions were only prolonging his life. He was already dying. Having Snape kill him served to convince everyone of his loyalty to you."

Again, Riddle looked smugly pleased with himself. He could relax at knowing he had played a part in Dumbledore's demise, after all. "Malfoy gave you the diary, and Dumbledore must have found the Gaunts. But what about the Locket? How did you find it?"

"Dumbledore guessed where it was. A cave Mrs Cole had told him about."

Hermione realized a bit too late, and only after seeing Riddle's eyes go wide with surprise, that he hadn't imagined  _she_  would know so very much about his life. And why would he have? She was just a half-dead girl that had been propped against a wall, conveniently in his way.

"Who else knows?" he  _demanded_  to know, standing up and drawing his wand in one swift movement.

Hermione gasped and felt her heart skip a beat, the pain of the  _cruciatus_  too fresh in her mind. "Just Dumbledore, and the three of us," she assured him. "Now only me," she corrected herself.

Riddle was almost shaking. She could see the thought dancing in his eyes: if he killed her, then it would be no one. He was a man fond of his secrets staying secret. A stranger knowing the truth was a strike to his pride. Yet, Hermione felt safe in the thought that she could still be useful to him. Too useful to risk killing over that.

"I don't have any particular interest in your life," she assured him, face twisted in distaste. "It was just useful to know, to better hunt the horcruxes." Just business, she meant to say. Tom Riddle the boy had been the main character of a story in her mind, too different from the monster she knew to relate the two. Just part of a puzzle that needed solving.

Tom Riddle narrowed his eyes, seemingly offended. "You become cheeky with prolonged conversation, Miss Granger. It makes me feel like I might have been too  _lenient_." His wand hovered too close to her face for her liking.

Hermione narrowed her eyes right back at him. Before she could think of what would be best for her own safety, she was already snapping, "I've always been cheeky,  _Mr Riddle_. Meekness doesn't suit me. You'll have to address Theodore for that." She braced herself, expecting pain for her daring. She had lied to Bellatrix Lestrange under torture, and if he raised his wand at her, she  _swore_  to herself he would never hear an ounce of truth come out of her mouth again.

He regarded her carefully once more. She was surprised when he took back his seat and crossed his legs, assuming again the act of a perfect gentleman. "People can only afford as much  _insolence_  as the usefulness they provide," he warned her. "Go on, Miss Granger, and show me whether it's worth keeping you around."

* * *

Theodore escorted Baba Yaga to the Library with trepidation. He could see the power game that was taking place over his head, and it unnerved him. On one hand, not crossing Tom Riddle had seemed like the best option. His father had been scared of the man at the age of seventeen, and he was sure he'd had good reason to.

On the other hand, the woman currently on his arm was the most intimidating creature he had ever faced. She smiled, and she giggled, and she batted her eyelids in a coquettish flutter and it all sent chills down his spine. He was a little mouse and she was just toying with him. He knew the time would come when she would feel like  _eating_.

Worst of all, he was caught between a rock and a hard place. Which of the two was he supposed to be following? Not knowing made it way too easy to misstep.

"I wish to read books about  _me_ ," she said as they reached the large wooden doors. "I wish to know who I became." He nodded at that, already having a few tomes in mind. "Then I want History books, encompassing all of Eurasia." He frowned. Europe was easy, but he was not sure he owned anything on south-eastern Asia. "And then a list of any spell and potions book that you consider to be the foundation of current wizarding know-how."

He nodded and he tried to scurry away to comply, but as he started raising from his ninety-degree bow she caught his chin with her thumb and forefinger and held him there. She looked down on him from her upright stance, and regarded him carefully through half-lidded eyes. He swallowed, wondering how he'd managed to make a mistake simply by bowing.

"And I want to know what Tommy and the half-dead girl are talking about," she said slowly, carefully observing his reactions. "This  _secret_  so  _secret_  that had to wait until we left. You wouldn't happen to know about it, would you, Theodore?"

He tried to shake his head but she had a firm grip on the space between his neck and his jaw, so he struggled to answer, "No, Ma'am."

She smiled, as if amused at having caught a child playing a trick. "And if you had to take an educated guess?"

Riddle, the past of the Dark Lord, was a frightening man but he didn't have a pointy nail prickling just above his jugular at that precise moment. "She was part of the group of people who killed him. Rumours spoke of his immortality, and I believed them. I guess he wants to know how they managed to – eh –  _circumvent_  the issue."

"Immortality is so  _dull_ ," she clacked her tongue. "And immortals  _annoying_. But nothing, Theodore, lasts forever," she lectured, and suddenly let him go. He raised, flushed now that blood had rushed to his head. "If that's what they want to discuss then they're welcome to do it in private," she turned and headed for one of the mauve Victorian chairs that had been his mother's favourites. She sat on it, legs propped up on the dark wooden arms, showing more skin than she covered and yet somehow managing to look like a Queen. "Fetch yourself a chair first, Theodore, and join me. Tell me about Hogwarts, and these Aurors, and your  _Oracle_  and about that Quill and Book nonsense you all speak about."

He chose the other mauve chair and moved it to her side. Riddle had ordered him to clarify those concepts to her, and so there was no hesitation when following her command. However, when the two acted against each other, what was he to do? He wondered which of them was most likely to become a benign overlord. Should he take his pick and swear fealty?

The woman smiled at him as he sat and placed a hand on his thigh. His eyebrows shot up and he blushed, which amused her. He had never been exactly successful with the ladies –far too shy and withdrawn– but Baba Yaga seemed…  _interested_. She appeared to have found a pastime in unnerving him through seduction. Time would tell if she only wished to tease, or if he would be serving his  _Dark Lady_  in more ways than one.

"Hogwarts, Theodore," she reminded him.

The heat of her hand was far too close to his groin for comfort, and a torrent of inappropriate thoughts flooded his teenaged mind. He should not have peeked at the magazines Draco kept hidden under his mattress. The scantily dressed young women now looked even younger in his mind, faces framed in dark, short curls and perky breasts surrounded by tattoos.

He spoke of his school in detail, hoping thinking about Dumbledore, Snape and McGonagall would sober up his thoughts. He recounted how the Aurors were organized and the basic structure of the Ministery. He corrected her misunderstanding; the  _Prophet_  and not  _Oracle_  was a newspaper containing information of dubious credibility. She found Granger's idea of the Quill and the Book the most interesting piece of information, and wished to get her hands on the valuable objects.

As they discussed the geographical range of the Quill, and the distinction between a revived soul and one brought forth from the past, they were startled by a shooing sound coming from behind them. They turned and raised in one smooth movement, the light from the fireplace casting green shadows all around the ample room. Baba Yaga was already pointing her wand at the flames, but he raised his hand to halt her. He shook his head and she, thankfully trusting him, lowered her wood and waited.

Blaise Zabini came out from the fire without missing a step and adjusted his cloak absentmindedly, before realizing he had an audience. When their eyes locked he could see his relief, and he sagged a bit before whispering, "Theodore," in quiet wonder.

"Blaise," he answered, voice shaking, moving toward him. The clothes he was wearing had seen better days, and he had a deep gash on his right cheek, but looked otherwise unharmed.

"I saw the dungeons collapse," he said, breathless, "but I knew you weren't there. So I thought, maybe – Fuck, man. I'm so glad you're alive!" Blaise crossed the distance between them in two long strides and engulfed him in a fierce hug, which he returned strongly. He felt his eyes sting. He'd lost Draco, but thank Merlin Blaise had made it out. "Fuck," he repeated, "I was ready to find the place infested with Death Eaters… It's a mess out there, man."

"Who's in power?" Was it Death Eaters still, as Riddle thought?

"Fuck if I know. But in the last twelve hours I've seen a woman leading half and army of inferi and at least four mad duels. They're everywhere. Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley; you name it! And the spells they use, Theo. You – You can't just believe how dark some are. And they're not Death Eaters, yeah. We know them all, the fuckers," he grumbled. "Oh, and some bastard named Loxias gave me this cut," he said, showing his right side. "Can't believe I made it here alive."

Before he could answer, Baba Yaga stepped between the two and placed a hand palm flat on Blaise's chest. His friend noticed her for the first time and tensed, lowering his gaze to take in the unknown woman. She raised the other hand and waved it lazily over his cheek, the cut mending itself without haste, but leaving only perfectly unmarred skin behind. Theo could hear the smug smile in her voice as she said, "Well, well, well, aren't you a  _pretty_  sight."

Blaise, whose eyes had gone wide at the relaxed display of wandless magic, raised his head to look questioningly at him over the tiny woman. They were both a full head taller, and yet she had the biggest presence in the room. Theo wondered how to transmit how much of a mess they were in, even within his house, with only facial movements.

"Let's go tell Tom we have a new friend around, Theodore." Blaise gathered enough from her tone of voice and his grim expression, and went very quiet. "Information from the outside, and we got it for free," she went on cheerfully. "Do try to remember exactly everything you've seen in the last few hours,  _Blaise_ ," she pronounced his name sweetly and his friend shivered. "Both Tom and I are rather fond of accuracy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for the warm response on the first chapter! Let's hope I can maintain the story fresh and original through the madness of this messy aftermath. The amount of kudos I got on the first chapter is a personal best by a long shot! I'm super happy :)


	3. A True Villain

**Dark Lord Who. Ch. 3: A True Villain**

Blaise realized women were dangerous on a warm summer morning ten years ago; his father's body going cold over the breakfast table as Gabriella Zabini enjoyed her buttered croissant. "Eat up," she'd commanded, "We've a long day ahead of us." Her soft Italian accent, which added barely-there vowels behind each musical word, enchanted men and women alike.

As Auror Proudfoot questioned her hours later, besotted smile plastered in his greasy face, his mother's sad tone never faltered. He'd wondered then, briefly, if she would ever put on the same acting skills over her own son's coffin. Never one to risk it, seven-year-old Blaise had declared the man had choked on his own when his mother was away; and she'd been pleased.

He had learned from her, after all, the importance of pragmatism.

He thought now, sitting on the well-lighted back parlour, that whatever succubus hell his mother had escaped from, this woman belonged in there too. They weren't the same, of course. Where his mother could make a man take his own life with a single smile and let him never suspect, Lady Yaga could show her sharp teeth and yet know you would walk through fire on command. Different, yes, but equally terrifying.

Men could be scary, fearsome, cruel and even inhuman; but terrifying was an adjective reserved solely for women.

Theodore sat by his side and tried to please both her and Tom Riddle –You-Know-Who reborn apparently–, at the same time. Blaise had not doubted even for one second which side he should take. The Dark Lord? He scoffed at the idea. Forget Potter; if the Dark Lord had married Gabriella he'd have died on the honeymoon. And he certainly would never have found a way to crawl back from the underworld afterwards.

Granger drank tea as she listened, and if her calmness and ease were faked then she was a better actress than Theodore. As Blaise recounted everything he'd seen on the outside, she had asked only one question: did he know whether Greyback was still alive? Blaise had nodded. Hell yes, he was; he'd seen him run out of the battle himself. Granger's eyes had shone at the news, and he'd realized then than some mudbloods were also  _women_.

Lady Yaga listened until the end of his full story, and then asked, " _Taboo_?" She snatched a sandwich from his plate and fed half to Theodore hand-to-mouth, making him blush fiercely.

"A curse placed upon one's name," Granger answered before any of them could. Funny, how old habits died hard. "When you pronounced it, the Snatchers –wizards under Death Eater command, but unworthy of the mark– came to fetch you. Accused you of treason."

As she spoke Theodore wrote the Dark Lord's name on a napkin, and offered it to Lady Yaga. "Such a curse, placed all over the country?" she whistled, impressed, and Riddle preened. She then smiled –that thrilled yet shiver-inducing smile– and said. "How  _useful_."

Riddle was the only one within their party that managed to look uninterested as they all turned and waited for her to go on. " _Dear_  Blaise," she said fondly, and he almost trembled, "has seen a lot out there. Aurors, a new Minister, the Prophet running still this morning, and all those werewolves… And apparently this  _taboo_  that still stands."

"If it stands still, that means it's currently held within the Ministry. That tells us two things," Riddle summarized, also interested in that particular bit of information. "First, that the Ministry is organized and strong enough to keep hold of it. And second, that they probably want the populace to believe Old Me is alive."

"Far easier to control," Granger pointed out. "Fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself," she sounded like she was quoting something; knowing her, Blaise assumed an old book. "If they believe You-Know-Who is alive, they won't lift a finger against his government." She was probably right.

Lady Yaga frowned when they opened the debate once more. "Let's stop dilly-dallying with all these theories and assumptions." She stood and licked her lips. "Let's get ourselves a Snatcher, and just  _ask_."

* * *

Hermione thought she would never again quite manage to feel comfortable in a forest. Even in broad daylight and her own party way more dangerous than any Snatcher or Death Eater she'd ever met; she couldn't help but feel anxious. Too many memories of being hunted, of eating scrawny rats and tasteless porridge, of being afraid of every shadow and an horcrux hanging around her neck, feeding the horrors in her mind.

She shook her head, willing herself to snap out of it. Yaga's plan was awfully simple, but it was better to stay alert. If she got distracted, she might get killed. And she'd much rather not. Hermione wasn't even sure what the reason was. Maybe a part of her still refused to give up. Maybe it was purely out of spite; she took a mean kind of pleasure in staying alive way past all those far  _superior_  purebloods that had wanted her dead. She hoped there was an afterlife –heaven of hell or whatever those bastards were wanted– so that they could see her worthless, mudblood self clinging to life.

"Done," Yaga said, standing up and returning her to the present.

She'd just finished inscribing a rune circle on the ground –using her left hand, because apparently it worked better for protective spells than her right– that buzzed with an ancient kind of magic. Hermione moved to stand within it, careful not to step on the writing, and as she was joined by Yaga the lines shone in a white light and the wards settled. She'd never seen a spell like that, but it  _felt_  safe.

"Can this stop a killing curse?" she asked, curious. If they planned on getting surrounded, they wouldn't have much chance of dodging.

"Nothing can," she confirmed her suspicions. Hermione was starting to develop an interest in the way some spells had managed to prevail across half a continent and seven centuries – Yaga knew the killing curse. The woman, who'd spent hours revising the books Nott had provided her, seemed to share it. "This shield is designed to deflect it," she explained, "not by making it bounce back –terribly hard feat to accomplish– but by forcing it to follow the circle and avoid you, being re-expelled behind your back."

Hermione nodded, understanding why it was perfect for their ambush: the resulting effect was that the spell skipped you and hit whomever stood behind. "I'm guessing the drawback is that it takes an hour to cast?" Yaga laughed.

"Are you finally done?" Riddle asked in a mood, having walked nearer when he saw the small burst of light.

"You're the one who insisted on a well-planned ambush," Yaga frowned and complained back. "There's five of us against half a dozen substandard  _Snatchers_. I doubt they'd make difficult opponents." To be honest, Hermione thought Riddle and Yaga alone were probably enough. If Voldemort had been half as prudent as his younger self, they would have never ended him.

Riddle sighed but got even closer, eager to take a look at the completed runes. He'd been busy casting plenty of obscure, camouflaging spells to hide himself and the boys and so had missed part of the process. "Is there a middle ground between suicidal, head-on duelling and this impenetrable runic fortress?" His voice sounded censoring, but Hermione knew him enough now to tell he was more impressed than annoyed.

Yaga clacked her tongue, eager to start. "Just go hide and let us act like the pretty bait we are."

"Please do  _act like bait_ , and don't set them all on fire," he asked them. Well, he asked Yaga and Hermione just happened to be in the vicinity of the conversation.

Yaga shooed him away with a hand gesture, and Riddle just took a very deep breath, reining in his irritation, and turned to join Nott and Zabini in the shadows.

As soon as his elegant form disappeared from sight, completely hidden from most revealing spells any competent wizard knew, Yaga laughed a shrill, girly, little laugh and excitedly said "Voldemort!" in a loud and clear voice.

The last time she'd heard that foul name in a forest she'd been overcome by panic. This time, in odd contrast, she almost felt sorry for the poor bastards that got sent their way. Almost.

As Zabini had informed them, the  _taboo_  still held. How curious, Hermione thought, that it hadn't been anchored to the man himself. As the loud snaps of apparition surrounded their position one by one, she pondered further on how such a complex spell even worked.

The group of foul-smelling, haggardly dressed men that had just apparated moved toward them slowly; all loud, mean laughs and jeered catcalling. She moved to stand back to back against Yaga, acting scared, drawing her wand in fake tremors.

"Get your wands down, girls, and 'ands up!" The rough, heavily accented voice belonged to none other than Scabiour. She was surprised there. She thought he'd died under a collapsed bridge. Apparently, it was true what they said about cockroaches; they were the only thing standing after a hurricane.

They didn't obey, even as seven wands raised menacingly against them. The men were unfazed by their refusal to surrender. Then again, she supposed they truly didn't look like much of a threat: young, only two and surrounded.

"Spoke the Dark Lord's name, did you?" a new voice she didn't recognize said to her right. "Disrespectin' much?"

Hermione repressed the urge to snort. Disrespecting who? She quite doubted Riddle minded.

"Not as much as when I killed him bit by bit," she taunted, turning slightly so that Scabior could get a good look at her. The gasps her insolence provoked were satisfying.

"Potter's mudblood!" he screamed. "Careful what you use on her," he snapped at his cronies. "The Minister wants her alive!" he slowly drew closer.

Yaga laughed loudly –that sharp, almost unnaturally eerie sound– and a few of them exchanged uncertain looks for the first time. "You're so  _famous_ ," she almost sang, laughing. Her demeanour changed then, and she became serious, sharply instructing, "Let's keep the boss."

Yaga raised her wand slowly enough to let them all react, no doubt on purpose. The men all fired within the second. The colourful rays of light impacted their shield, which raised like a crystal sphere all around them, and travelled around its surface too fast to track with her bare eyes. Instantly, four out of six dropped to the ground. The other two looked startled, having only seen the sphere backfire, but not quite understanding how it worked.

They paused for only one second but it was more than enough. Stunning spells came from the shadows, impacting on their backs, and they joined the rest of their companions.

Yaga sighed. "See, that was so anticlimactic," she complained. "I poured my soul into casting this beauty and they barely lasted a second!"

Hermione was not fond of neither theatrics nor unnecessary risks, and found the result perfectly satisfying. She wished her plans with Harry and Ron had been this infallible.

Riddle came out once more, doubtlessly sharing Hermione's opinion. "Good work on making them want you alive," he praised her. "Otherwise they might just have all died, victims to each other." Hermione shrugged. She hadn't thought it that far, to be honest; she had snapped at them out of poorly-managed anger.

None of them were dead, but Riddle and Yaga agreed that keeping them all was unnecessary. Nott paled at the mention of cold-bloodedly getting rid of a few, and Zabini didn't but Hermione thought he looked tense. Yaga sighed and complained that she wasn't made for  _boring clean-up_ , but she snapped her fingers and four spines cracked very loudly. Hermione looked at the survivors. Scabior and the spare. She wondered if she should be feeling pity, but there was only cold, bitter rage within her. Scabior had once dragged her to Bellatrix Lestrange's feet to be tortured. It was only fair, she supposed, that she drag him to Yaga's to suffer the same fate.

"Check if they have something of use," Riddle ordered the boys.

Nott and Zabini ransacked their bodies, and got a copy of the  _Prophet_ , a few badly scribbled notes and an official-looking list. They ignored the galleons Hermione could hear clinking, and she thought of how nice it must be, to be so filthy rich that you found money dismissible.

She took the  _Prophet_  from Theodore's hands and Dolores Umbridge's pale, toady face smiled at her in girlish antics. Underneath her pink-clad figure, bold large letters stated a terrifying message.

_DOLORES UMBRIDGE ELECTED MINISTER FOR MAGIC_

_Minister Thicknesse Murdered by the Order of the Phoenix_

Hermione felt her hands clench on each side of the paper, and she could only think that no, it could not be  _Umbridge_. Of all the people in the world, please, not Umbridge. She would rather take the Carrows; or even Riddle himself as Minister. Just not – not  _Umbridge_.

' _In an unforeseen move, the Order of the Phoenix conspired to take over the Ministry in one last, terribly desperate act. Last night, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was attacked by the terrorist group, with the unmistakable objective of taking our children hostage to force the Ministry to yield to their unreasonable demands. The Auror forces were fully deployed to help protect – '_

Hermione had to take a deep breath right there, and forced herself to take a brief pause. She hadn't seen one single Auror that wasn't either a Death Eater or a member of the Order. That lying bunch of conniving power-hungry snakes! She skimmed over the rest, paying attention to the important bits within the false, over-elaborated narrative.

' _The Order used forbidden blood magic, employing several young children as sacrifices, in order to create a revived army of Dark Wizards. Many students, totalling up to more than two-hundred casualties, fell prey to the battle that resulted when these wizards and witches were set free within the school grounds.'_

' _The entirety of the Hogwarts staff, including valiant Headmaster Snape, lost their lives fighting to protect the students.'_

' _Hogwarts, our school and sanctuary, which raised us and shaped us into the dependable wizarding community we stand as today, has been completely defiled in this destructive ordeal.'_

' _Late Minister Pius Thicknesse joined the Aurors in battle, sadly losing his life as he fell victim to the Order's dark spells.'_

' _Recently elected Minister Umbridge has sworn to pursue and capture every single witch and wizard responsible for the bloodiest and cruellest act of wizarding selfishness our society has ever witnessed. "No single Order member shall go unpunished," she stated this morning, in a brave first public appearance."'_

Hermione's face had gone red with barely controlled anger –she could feel the heat on her ears– at the falsehood. " _Drivel_ ," she hissed viciously, earning a careful sideways glance from Nott. Her eyes jumped to the end of the article and was truly unsurprised when the inclined and curled cursive spelled  _Rita Skeeter_.

She could not allow this. She might have given up hope –for what hope was there when she had no one to share it with?– but she would  _never_  allow Umbridge to succeed through her petty, evil and tyrannical means. There was no one, absolutely no one in this world she despised with the same intensity she did Dolores Umbridge. Even Bellatrix, now charred coal on Hogwarts' stone floors, placed lower in that list.

And Rita… Rita was also pretty damn close to number one.

* * *

Theodore locked the dungeons after making sure their captives held no wands or other magical means of escape. Tilly and Garble hopped after him, happy to have their young master back, and accompanied by more guests than Nott Manor had seen in a hundred years.

"Feed them regularly, and bring them blankets," Theo ordered. "Make sure they don't get too sick." He was pretty sure his father had not been as careful of  _prisoners_  and so the house-elves needed to know he preferred his not dying.

He went up to the second floor, wishing nothing more than to join Blaise for a good, long shot of firewhisky. He supposed he shouldn't be feeling so agitated. He'd always known he'd end up joining a band of murderers; he'd just assumed a different one. He'd also thought his main job within the ranks would be more – well, conventional.

"Granger?" he asked after knocking on her door. "May I come in?"

She opened the door herself, lifting whatever exotic spell held it locked, and beckoned him in. "What is it?" she asked, fighting to tame her wild curls in front of the vanity. He watched her cast spells with one hand and hold a brush in the other, almost fascinated with the spectacle.

"Tom wants to see you tomorrow morning," he delivered, wondering if her hair withstood such a furious battle night after night.

Granger glared at him through the vanity mirror, and he shrugged. "His exact words were more along the lines of 'extending his invitation to join him for breakfast.'"

She snorted, "Tell him to shove his polite  _invitation_  up his ass."

"Yeah, right," he laughed. "You tell him yourself," he retorted, and let himself fall on one of the tall wingback chairs.

Granger was still looking at him through the mirror, now more carefully. She finished with her hair –or gave up, hard to tell, really– and turned to face him. "Doesn't it vex you? Having to go around delivering messages to a  _mudblood_?" she asked, expression tense.

He almost felt like laughing. "Granger, I have two murderers under my roof, one of which is currently lounging on  _my bed_. And I have two prisoners in my fucking basement," he reminded her. "I have bigger problems than the quality of your blood."

"It seemed important to you not even a year ago," she pointed out, still dubious.

"Well, one year ago my biggest problem was Malfoy using so many beauty products I needed a bubble-head charm to enter our bathroom." Granger's lips teased a small smile. "That, and Blaise sucks at silencing charms. You'd think with so many girls, that we'd get a different concert every night; but no, it turns out intercourse lexicon is fairly limited."

He tricked a laugh out of her, and she relaxed enough to take a sit on the other side of the small coffee table.

"And look at us now," she said. "How can the world change so much in just a year?"

"Through fucked-up sacrificial magic?"

She gave him a reluctant nod. "And the classic wrong place, wrong time, I suppose."

A knock on the door drew their attention, and Tatters entered the room, carrying a pile of gowns taller than herself.

"Tatters is bringing dresses for Miss Hermione," she said, settling them within the wardrobe with a flick of her long, bony fingers. "Nott Manor is having many dresses, Master Theodore, but Tatters isn't being sure they're not too old. Tilly is telling Tatters that young witches wear different gowns."

"It's fine, Tatters. Just put anything you find inside Miss Hermione's and Lady Yaga's wardrobes. We'll make do."

Tatter's ears went up and twitched side to side. "Master Theodore, young witches is never making do! Young witches is dressing properly for their station!" she scolded. "Miss Hermione and Lady Yaga are not being a laughingstock!"

Theo sighed and raised to appease her. "They're both going to dress exquisitely, Tatters, don't worry. Mother's gowns are modern enough, I assure you." Tatters still looked suspicious, as if she honestly doubted his capacity to understand female fashion. "Why don't you ask Blaise, then? Have him approve the gowns beforehand?"

Tatters perked up at the suggestion. "Master Blaise is a good dresser. Master Blaise can save the honour of the House of Nott," she agreed, and left in hurried hops.

Granger checked the open wardrobe disapprovingly. "Why's everyone here so  _obsessed_  with clothing? A pair of jeans would do, really."

"Are those the blue, tight things you mud – ggleborns wear?" Hermione nodded. "Riddle would have a stroke if he saw you in that. I reckon he likes to pretend he's a rich, classy gentleman; all fancy robes, tea and manners."

She agreed. "Still, I don't like how he wants to tell me how to dress, Nott."

"And neither does Lady Yaga; and that's one conversation I'm dreading," he complained. "Why does it fall onto me, to go around dressing women in this place?"

"You're meek?" she smirked, and he got the impression she was laughing at some inside joke.

"Lady Yaga brings out the meekness in us all, I assure you," he defended. Blaise wasn't doing much better now, was he?

"When did she become  _Lady_  Yaga, anyway?"

Theodore shrugged. "Blaise  _insists_ ," he said. "Fervently." The man had serious issues regarding women. "Do you wish to be called Lady Hermione?" he asked, and she looked horrified. "I don't mind, really. What's one more master, at this point?"

"I'm not your master!" Her repulsed expression was hilarious, and he couldn't help himself but keep on teasing.

"Ah, but I need masters, you see," he smirked, "I'm  _meek_."

* * *

Tom sighed and leaned back on the comfortable Bergère chair he had claimed as his own in the back parlour. For a man so very recently displaced in time, he had a busy day ahead of himself. He would start, though, with a full breakfast and a nice cup of tea; just as any dignified wizard would.

Miss Granger didn't make him wait long; which was good, as –no matter how necessary– he loathed waiting. She joined him at the small round table when he wandlessly pulled out another chair, inviting.

"Please help yourself, Miss Granger," he said as he took the  _Prophet_. A toady, overly pink woman smiled at him from her perch on the first page, her wide mouth curled in a way that spelled victory.

He tasted the eggs, but the sight was taking his hunger away. With the large bow on her mousy brown hair, she looked like a caricaturised representation of a childish woman. He could not believe someone like that –ridiculous in style, and nauseating in appearance– was the face of wizarding Britain's power.

"The Minister wants you alive," he remembered his prisoners saying. "How come, Miss Granger?"

Hermione finished buttering her scone with flourish before giving him an answer, once more testing his patience. He couldn't help but find it almost amusing, how the girl liked to push him despite knowing better than anyone in the world what he was capable of. Was it Gryffindor foolhardiness? A suicidal streak, perhaps?

"I imagine she holds quite the grudge against me," she admitted. "What I can't explain is how she came to know I was alive." She frowned, taking a bite. "She used to teach at Hogwarts," she returned to his question. "Defence Against the Dark Arts," she snorted, blewing away a few scone crumbles, "the most ridiculous and incompetent professor I've ever had imposed on me. And believe me, since you cursed the DADA position, I've had plenty."

"I cursed it, you say?" He had to admit the girl's tales were more entertaining than the best of novels. And she had quite a flair for story-telling. It made him almost not mind her insolence.

"Dumbledore refused to give it to you, and you're spiteful," she smirked at him, teasing, testing again for his limits. He laughed this time. Well, he  _was_  spiteful. "No DADA professor lasted more than a year afterwards. Our first year professor was a stuttering man that smelled of garlic, and had a piece of you attached to the back of his head," she added flippantly.

Surely, he'd misunderstood. "Excuse me?"

And there it was, the pleased little smirk that showed how happy she was at having caught him off-guard yet again. She enjoyed her scone with mean pleasure, and he felt his own jaw clench much against his will. He didn't give her the satisfaction of showing it, and just waited.

"You know that when you failed to kill Harry sixteen years ago, your soul remained in this world thanks to your horcruxes," she said. He did. Theodore had told him about the prophecy and the night he'd fallen to the one-year old. "Your soul anchored to different bodies, and in one of those instances, possessed Professor Quirrell."

"That's hardly stable." She's said the  _back of his head_ , which had to mean two souls inhabiting the same body. He pondered for a second, and then asked, "unicorn blood?"

She seemed surprised he'd caught on so quickly, and he preened. Still, remembering that a part of his own soul had resided behind a man's face was a bit of a blow to his already deflating pride.

"You tried to get the philosopher's stone, which was kept in Hogwarts." That made sense. At least he hadn't lost his wits completely; Old Him had been searching for a permanent solution.

"But?" He just saw it coming.

She smiled yet again. "Harry stopped you, of course."

Of. Fucking. Course.

The damned brat was lucky to be already dead.

"After that, Professor Quirrell died and you vanished once more," she paused, perhaps to collect her thoughts, and sipped her tea. "On our second year, we got an impostor – A man who obliviated great wizards and took credit for their works. In the end, his own memory spell ended up firing back on him when he tried to obliviate–"

"No, please," he interrupted bitterly, twisting his mouth. "Let me take a wild guess: Harry Potter."

She laughed this time. A heartfelt, bubbly laugh that made him uncharacteristically aware that it was the first time he'd seen her look so happy – so alive.

"Third year was a bit different. We had a good professor, the very best," her merriment faded and he could tell she was grieving through the way her voice faltered. A dead man, he guessed. "And a werewolf. As his condition was discovered, he was forced to leave," she added sadly.

A  _werewolf_  teaching at Hogwarts? Dumbledore had gone senile in his old age.

"In fourth year, we actually got a Death Eater in disguise." She furrowed her nose as she tended to do when she found something distasteful, like the sight of Minister Umbridge over breakfast. "Who plotted to use Harry's blood in a ritual that revived you. He succeeded, but Harry managed to escape your trap –he faced you and all of your Death Eaters, alone– unscathed."

All right, that was just about enough. Who the hell was that kid? He refused to believe a fourteen-year-old so talented had existed – more talented than even himself. She was again pleased with his reaction, and this time he wasn't so amused. He'd have to ask Theodore about the Potter brat in more detail, to understand what exactly could have happened.

"Fifth year was a blast; we got  _Umbridge_ ," the raw loathing in her voice almost startled him. She hadn't sounded even piqued when speaking about Malfoy, and barely angry about Old Him. This woman, though, seemed special. "The Ministry placed her in Hogwarts to control Dumbledore, as they refused to believe you were back, and thought instead he was plotting rebellion."

He almost laughed at the ludicrous idea. If Dumbledore wanted power, he'd have taken it when the Ministry had offered him the seat of Minister on a plate. But he hadn't; he'd chosen children, and love and hope and all forms of adulterated, empty words that made him feel like a saint and saviour.

"She got so power-hungry, she ended up kicking Dumbledore out of school. However," she smiled in a catty, vindictive way, "the Headmaster's office refused to open for her. She had to set office elsewhere."

He did laugh this time, imagining the short, pink, angry woman trying to defeat Hogwarts itself. Foolish toad; how dare she try to occupy such a revered position?

"She also set up an Inquisitorial squad, named herself High Inquisitor – Yes, I know, makes you cringe," he had to agree. How very pompous it sounded. "Anyway, at some point during that year, Harry was convinced that his godfather was held captive at the Ministry, and was being tortured by you."

He was startled by the change of topic, but trusted she was going somewhere. She always seemed to be. "Why would Old Me be torturing his godfather at the Ministry?"

"It's a long story… And in the end, it turned out it was a trap," again, she grieved. He'd have to press her for details later, he wanted to know everything. For the moment, though, he'd be satisfied if she got to her point. "But we wanted to contact Harry's godfather, and make sure. So we used Umbridge's Floo Connection, and we got caught." She took a breath, drank her tea. "Umbridge, ever paranoid and self-important, wanted to know what Harry was planning. She even threatened to use the  _cruciatus_." She smiled again, sadly. "Now, by that point, none of us had experienced it, and the mere thought terrified me."

He was surprised she was willing to admit to such a weakness in front of him. She was, true to her Gryffindor spirits, too open. Still, for a non-Slytherin, she was proving intelligent and interesting enough for him to truly considering keeping. Even if not for the information she possessed, the way she engaged in conversation was entertaining. And he loathed being  _bored_.

"So I tricked her," she said. "I put on a bit of an act, told Harry we should just give in and  _tell her_  – I acted scared. I pretended we had a secret weapon hidden within the Forbidden Forest."

He burst out laughing, and she was so surprised by the sound she almost dropped her cup. But seriously, a  _secret weapon_? The woman was absurdly gullible; even a child would have seen through such a ruse.

"Oh, please, do go on," he asked her. He had to admit the girl had led a pretty eventful life.

"She followed us –me and Harry– into the Forest, held us at wandpoint, but she was alone. So," she briefly hesitated, "I made noise. A lot of noise as we moved through and I  _knew_ , sooner or later, the Centaurs would appear."

He frowned. Centaurs were not known to help humans; they were territorial, distrusting beasts. Had she planned her actions through, or was it again Gryffindor classic 'act first and think later'?

"Umbridge was extremely racist, and insultingly open about it. I knew, because we had a Centaur teaching Divination, and she had a fit. But Centaurs, they're proud…"

"She offended them?" he guessed, finally seeing the end of her manipulative little threads.

"A whole herd," she sounded both proud and ashamed. "She called them 'filthy half-breeds', and 'creatures of near-human intelligence' – Well, she's not exactly smart," she pointed out when he made a face. "When they threatened her, she got scared, and attacked one of them. The rest was – well, not pretty, I imagine."

He was, he had to admit, impressed. He'd never met a Gryffindor so ruthless. "You led her to a Centaur herd and made her dig her own grave," his lips curled on their own will, " _beautiful_."

She was taken aback, he saw, by the sincerity of his words. A praise coming from him was hardly praise to her, but a heavy blow to her morality. As if what she'd done was terrible, reproachable, and therefore a man like him could find value in it.

Perhaps she was right that his appraising necessarily meant her actions could be considered of dubious virtue by the general populace. But why would she care about the faceless amounts of average, useless wizards that couldn't see true talent when it danced in front of them? Unlike those people,  _he_  could appreciate her value. And if she repudiated his praise now, well, Tom had never met anyone who didn't eventually end up  _dying_  for the honour to receive it.

"That's why she hates you, then." He saw now where she'd been going; to answer his first question.

"One of the reasons," she said. "There might be a second, to tell the truth. And coincidentally, this brings us back to your locket."

How gratifying, he had to admit, the way she spun and connected her tales. He leaned back on his chair, getting comfortable. Such a pleasant way to start his day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read Lady Yaga as Lady Gaga way too many times inside my head…
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented and let me know they're enjoying this! It helps write now that my vacation is over and I'm more pressed for time. I hope you'll continue to read!


	4. A Moral Flexibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains an almost quote from Nikita Gill's work. Go to the end notes for the full reference.

**Dark Lord Who. Ch. 4: A Moral Flexibility**

Hermione considered Tom Riddle with caution. She couldn't quite shake the feeling she was somehow  _amusing_  him. As she went on, he looked far less concerned with either her language and her so-called  _impudence_ , instead opting to enjoy himself at the expense of her life adventures.

"You remember how I said Dumbledore told us where to find the locket?" It was a courtesy question. Of course he remembered; he'd snapped because of it. She'd come close to bleeding on Theodore Nott's obnoxiously expensive Tabriz carpets because of it.

"The cave," he said, nodding. Nothing in his demeanour hinted toward imminent danger, and she went on.

"Harry and Dumbledore went to the cave to retrieve the locket," she started. Someone should know the truth of how Harry had bravely risked his life to save them all; even if that someone was Tom Riddle. "They went past an inferi-infested lake, and in order to reach the horcrux Dumbledore had to drink a foul liquid – a potion that made him insanely thirsty."

"Did he now?" Riddle put one leg over the other, dark eyes deep with eagerness for her to go on. Dumbledore, she could see, had been a painful thorn on his side. "I assume the inferi were meant to attack when the thirsty man went for the lake's water?"

Again, she was impressed by his quickness, the way he linked events and went for the inevitable implications. Of course, in this case, he only needed to read his own mind. She nodded, and went on, "It left him feeling weak. Harry was the one to fetch the horcrux and get them out of there. When they reached Hogwarts, Snape was waiting to kill Dumbledore."

Riddle bit his lower lip, "So he knew," he said. He fell back against the chair, again serious. "He knew he'd return weak, and so he used the occasion to have his own man kill him."

"Yes," she said. "His cursed hand would have ensured he didn't last much longer anyway. Not that we knew back then, of course. We just thought Snape had turned."

"He staged his death in front of Potter, and you all believed his spin on the truth." His nostrils flared, displeased that Dumbledore had died on his own terms at the end. "Even his own death, he used to guide your movements. The old coot had everything planned out, didn't he?"

Hermione's mouth felt sour, the way she was being forced to swallow a very unpleasant truth. She wished Dumbledore had done things differently. She wished he had trusted them more. Perhaps, if he had, the aftermath would have changed for the better. "Well, he did make a few mistakes," she pointed out. "For one, the locket was a fake."

"A  _fake_?" Riddle almost raised in his surprise, and she regretted not having waited until he had tea in his mouth to drop that one. "How could it have been  _a fake_?" his voice had gone coarse, almost a croak. It was oddly hilarious.

"We found a note inside; someone had stolen the real one, and intended to destroy it. From the text, it was clear it was one of your Death Eaters," she fetched more tea, feeling her mouth dry after speaking for so long. She felt less awkward too, busying her hands. "The problem was, we didn't know if he'd succeeded."

"How could he have known where to find it?" He seemed alarmed. She supposed the thought of even more people knowing about the cave –about his secrets– made him feel vulnerable.

"To place the locket under the liquid, you needed someone to drink it. You asked one of your servants for his house-elf, Kreacher. Afterwards, when called, he returned weakened to his master and told the truth." She had laced her tone with disapproval, but he either didn't notice, or chose to ignore it.

He was busy looking disgusted with himself. "He didn't make sure the elf was dead?" he asked in disbelief. She supposed sitting there being listed all of his mistakes had to be rather vexing, and wondered if he would snap once more.

"No." She almost wished they could meet, Voldemort and Tom Riddle, and have this discussion face to face. "You probably assumed he wouldn't survive the cave. You never had much respect for other species."

"Respect?" He scoffed at the mere notion of it. "For a  _house-elf_?"

"Well, he did scape, didn't he?"  _Self-important, prejudiced bastard_ , she thought in fury. She would defend S.P.E.W. even in front of this man. "House-elf magic is a powerful thing, Riddle." She could tell he didn't appreciate her lecturing tone. His eyes narrowed, and again she was reminded of his warning: she was allowed to be  _cocky_  as long as she remained  _useful_.

The more she remembered it, the more she felt the urge to defy him.

His voice got closer to a grumble as he asked, "So he escaped, and then his master went back to fetch the horcrux. Why?"

"He was close to Kreacher. He didn't care for you almost killing him." Regulus and Kreacher's affection for each other was one of the most tragic tales she'd ever witnessed. She had the feeling Riddle wouldn't be able to appreciate the fatal beauty in it.

He huffed, bringing a hand to his perfect curls and ruffling them out of place. Not that the bastard looked any less handsome. "So those were the Death Eaters? Betrayers; one for love of a woman and another for a bloody  _house-elf_?" She supposed the idea he had lost because of  _love_  sounded a bit too much like something Dumbledore would say, and he knew it. "Was there ever a loyal one?"

She laughed, which he'd learned to see as foreboding. "Yes," she told him. "You let Yaga kill her."

He threw her a profoundly disgusted look, and she laughed harder. He rolled his eyes in a theatrical gesture, and then she could tell he was  _allowing_  her to have a laugh at his expense. He was humouring her, as one would allow a kitten to bite and scratch their hand while thinking it cute.

How awfully  _paternalistic_  of him.

"Anyway," she went on, changing the topic. Else, she might snap, and that wasn't likely to bring her any good. "We had a note –signed by R.A.B.– and we had no horcrux. Dumbledore was dead, and we were alone. Not the most uplifting of circumstances." A clear understatement.

"I can imagine." He sounded utterly unsympathetic. "How did you find the real horcrux?"

"We hid from the Death Eaters –the Ministry fell to their hands soon after Dumbledore's death– inside Grimmauld Place." At Riddle's eyebrow raise, she answered his unasked question. "Black Manor. It belonged to Harry, since Sirius Black was his godfather."

"The one Old Me  _didn't_  torture inside the Ministry," he remembered. "The Blacks are Sacred Twenty Eight, though; all blood purists. How was this man Potter's godfather?"

"He was a bit of a black sheep, Sirius. His mother, Walburga, blasted him out of the family tree."

"Walburga!" He exclaimed, and he looked like she did when faced with Umbridge. "So her son turned rebellious?" He smiled the mean little smirk he got when someone's misfortune pleased him.

"You knew her?"

"One year above me in Slytherin," he said. "Pretentious, uptight and too thick to be as calculatingly vicious as she wished." Hermione refrained from pointing out it must have been the inbreeding purely out of respect for Sirius.

"One of your most fervent supporters," she did add.

"It surely pleases you to point out Old Me's failures, Miss Granger," he narrowed his eyes once more. "But she wasn't  _my_  supporter. I am but a seventeen-year-old who was about to finish his Hogwarts education before suddenly finding himself abducted into a dystopian future mess. Please, stop calling  _him_  me. Because, I assure you, Walburga Black never supported anything  _I_ did."

She stopped short. Well, he had a point. They all kept speaking about revival, but through his point of view, he'd just been brought into the future. This man –or even boy– in front of her hadn't done yet all the things she was accusing him off. Nor would he, not anymore.

"You're not him yet, but you're his  _seed_. You're hardly an innocent," she said. He wouldn't fool her, she knew who he was. What he'd already done.

"Please," he asked, offended, "you don't need to believe me innocent, Miss Granger. It's something I've never wished to be. I'm simply asking you to remember I'm not a foolish, unstable man who's been defeated time and time again by a little brat, and who can't keep his own followers in line."

Ah, so it was simply a matter of pride.

"The locket," he reminded her, getting impatient.

"Yes, the locket. We realized, in Grimmauld Place, who R.A.B was: Regulus Arcturus Black, Sirius' own younger brother." She vividly remembered the surprise. How sad, that Sirius had died never knowing. "Kreacher told us then, about the night Regulus went to the cave to never come back. Before ordering Kreacher away, he told him to destroy the locket, but he couldn't find a way to."

"Despite his all-powerful elf magic? Colour me surprised," he said, pure Slytherin sneer in place.

She fumed, feeling her own cheeks redden, much to his amusement. She did not deign his spiteful comment with a response, and simply chose to go on. "The locket was gone, too. A petty thief, Mundungus Fletcher, stole it."

"From Black manor?" he was surprised, and he had reason to be. She regretted having to offer the next piece of information; it was embarrassing.

"He'd been part of the Order," and had that not been a mistake? "Don't look  _at me_  like that, Dumbledore decided who was in."

"Trustworthy as always," he said with a pleased smirk.

"Anyway, he had access to the place, and stole the locket along with anything that shone." The bastard. She wondered if he was alive still. Probably; cockroaches and all that. "Our bad luck made it so that the buyer was  _Umbridge_."

"And so we come back to the Minister," he licked his lips, eager for more.

"Senior Under-Secretary to the Minister Umbridge, back then," she corrected. "Who had our locket hanging around her thick neck," she didn't even care how open she was about her revulsion. Riddle had noticed already, no point in holding back.

He laughed at her word choice, and asked, "So what did you do?"

She snorted, "What else? Steal it, of course," she smirked. "From within the Ministry itself."

Tom Riddle thought himself so superior to everyone else, so far beyond impressing or shocking, that he was surprisingly easy to unsettle. True, not by the standards of a  _normal_  person; but Hermione felt sure in the knowledge she had lead a fairly untypical life. And him, despite two horcruxes in his pocket at the age of seventeen, had lived through far less.

"You, Undesirables Number One and Number Two,  _snuck_  into the Ministry while it was under Death Eater control?" he asked, as if starting to rethink his first assessment of her, the one in which he must have deemed her moderately intelligent.

Oh, she  _so wished_  to tell him about Gringotts' dragon.

* * *

Yagaratea had never once not reached for what she wanted. She reached, but instead of taking, she let her hand hover. And without her moving, whatever she desired simply flew into her arms. Magic, they called it.

She turned from the window and faced Theodore, who had slept by her side –or kept still while trying not to fidget– the previous night. She raised her hand, let it wait hanging in mid-air, and he stood up and went to place his cheek against her palm.

Indeed, magic.

"Tell me again, Theodore, why must I wear such heavy cloaks?" If Tom wanted to dress her, he should come do it himself. Theodore was hers to play with; and she found she disliked sharing.

"I asked Tatters to bring the lightest gowns," he said, and he managed to almost stifle his trembles. However, with her fingers near his throat, she could feel the quickness of his pulse. "There's this one in sage green, made with the finest acromantula silk. The sleeves are quarter length, and the back bare. It's… fluttery. I don't think you'd find it  _oppressive_."

She did dislike retraining clothing; the boy was observant. She would wear the gown, if only because she enjoyed this game in which he tried to fit her tastes and she tried to unsettle him. She turned and let her sleeping gown fall –why would anyone wear clothes in bed, of all places?– and enjoyed the sound of his harsh gasp. She knew without looking he must have turned away, face charmingly blushing.

The wardrobe doors opened for her and out came the mentioned dress. Green wasn't her colour, though, and with a snap of her fingers –she loved the sound of it– it was tinted a deep red. She wondered what fancy name the boy would have for the shade.  _Sage green_ , he'd said, how amusing.

She dressed and had to admit that the fabric was soft and pleasant to the touch, like nothing they'd had in her mother Russia. Perhaps time had indeed worked wonders.

"How is it?" she asked. "How do I look?"

He took her in and despite the fear he must feel, his eyes roamed hungry. She enjoyed the feel of them, the heat on her skin. She wanted to play longer, but if he kept on being so delectably pretty she would jump him. Was it the eyes, she wanted to see teary, or was it the plump lips, she wanted to hear moan?

"Like –" he stuttered, searching for the words, looking almost overwhelmed at the sight of her. "Half goddess, half hell," he said in a whisper so soft she almost didn't hear.

She'd never rejoiced in flattery, nor wished for self-important promises of love. But he had a way with words, her boy, and she felt herself become slightly breathless. Despite the obvious lust, he didn't emphasize too heavily on her beauty; and despite the obvious fear, he praised her as powerful.

Sweet, sweet Theodore.

She could get used to wizarding Britain, she thought, with its refined, elegant boys; all worried about pretty clothing, sweet tea and perfect manners. How adorable.

She smiled at him and made him shiver, "Let's fetch Tom and the girl. I'd like to ask our Snatchers a few questions."

He nodded, "I'll get Blaise."

_Yes,_  she thought,  _get Blaise_. A man need not be useful at interrogation, for she was more than capable of taking care of it; but a nice  _décor_  was never amiss.

* * *

Tom found dungeons displeasing. He also disliked the general preconception that they were the ideal setting for torture. Why, really? They were humid, smelt stale and had truly horrible acoustics.

He kicked a pebble, annoyed, as the raw screaming of one of their captives reverberated within the stuffy room. He had to admit he was surprised; Yagaratea tortured with more clinical detachment than expected. True, her eyes glinted with more than just the reflection of the torches, but she used the occasion to  _experiment_ , not to flail in passionate abandonment.

It was a sick sight, honestly, watching a man's skin unhurriedly peel itself. However, torture as an art had to target the  _mind_ , not the body; and Yagaratea seemed have mastered the craft.

He crouched in front of Scabior, who couldn't lift his eyes from his crony's bloodied arms, and asked him, "Would you prefer a quicker death?"

The man nodded –Tom was certain he couldn't find any words– with desperation. He resisted the urge to smirk, only showing him the coldest, most disinterested expression he could muster.

"Answer a few questions," he offered, "and I'll make it painless."

He nodded again.

Funny, how thirty minutes of witnessing nothing but agony could make one find relief in the thought of his own death – and only fear the  _pain_. Within the room, at that very moment, Scabior, Theodore and Blaise would rather betray their own mothers than risk a round in Yagaratea's hands.

Miss Granger, though…

"How did Umbridge know I was alive?" she asked Scabior, face hard, wand in hand.

' _The Minister wants her alive,'_  Scabior had said before his capture. Tom was curious, too, about why Minister Umbridge had given such an order. Had they been seen in Diagon Alley?

Scabior half-sneered –an ugly scar on the right side of his face not allowing him a full one– and spat at her feet. He was surprised. He would have thought him far too scared to still care about blood purity.

Miss Granger tightened the hold on her wand and glanced at him, not having expected the rebuttal. Tom shrugged, letting the smirk come to life this time. If Scabior answered to him, but not her, it was hardly his problem.

Scabior was pleased by his reaction, which was awfully naïve of him. Tom didn't care if he dropped dead. He'd even make the filthy Snatcher kiss the hem of Miss Granger's dress if it suited his own purposes. Granted, he'd just humiliated her – validated Scabior when he'd defied her. But he hadn't done it for him.

He'd done it to see how  _she_  reacted.

' _What now?_ ' asked his amused expression. ' _Show me,_ Hermione _, what you can do for yourself._ '

She read the unspoken command. Her stony features barely registered a change, but her eyes shone with a hardness he had not yet seen in them – defiance, he had, yes… But this was something else. Something interesting.

He had to admit he'd half-expected her to throw a curse – either at him or Scabior, neither would have surprised him. However, when she raised her right arm, she actually let her wand slide down her sleeve and into the hidden holster sewn within it. He couldn't hide a flicker of confusion, and she smiled when she noticed.

She crouched in front of Scabior and undid the fancy, crossed laces around her left arm. She rolled up the sleeve and uncovered the most visually aggressive scar he'd ever seen.  _Mudblood_ , haphazardly crisscrossed against her skin, carved from crook to wrist in a colour so red he almost expected it to start bleeding.

"You once dragged me to Bellatrix's feet," she told Scabior. "She was fond of the cruciatus, remember? And of knifes" The man paled, eyes firmly fixed on her marred skin. "I know you believe you and I are  _different_ ," she said, dragging the word out as if it were disgusting. "And I agree." That made him raise his eyes again, and she stared back, cold. "I never yielded. She cursed, and kicked, and  _carved_  into my skin. And do you know what I did?" He didn't answer. "I  _lied_ ," she hissed. "I lied to her. I tricked her. And thanks to my lies, I'm still alive."

Tom had never been forced to admit he was impressed by someone more than once.

There was, indeed, a first time for everything.

"I never yielded," she repeated. "I'll never yield," and this time she looked at him.

At  _him_. Tom felt a rush, a crazy, electrical shock running down his spine; it started as a spark and ended just in heat. The corner of his mouth lifted in an uncontrollable urge to smile. A true smile; one that came from within, from what was the real Tom Riddle.

An ugly smile.

"So, you see," she went on to face Scabior, never noticing Tom's visceral reaction. "We are, indeed, different."

Miss Granger took a worn, dowdy beaded bag out of one of her gown's pockets. Folded over itself, apparently light; it seemed to be empty. Only, when she opened it she could fit her arm inside all the way up to her shoulder, and when she took it out she held a small, silver vial in her hand. She dangled the stoppered bottle in front of Scabior's eyes, and Tom could see a stylized representation of an angel –Victorian style– carved on it.

"Do you know what this is?" she asked Scabior. Or perhaps the both of them. "No? I didn't think so." Scabior had lost the cocky attitude. Anyone would, when faced with an unknown potion. She went on, "It's Angel's Trumpet Draught, otherwise known as –"

"Draught of Fear," Tom finished for her.

Damn. That made three times.

Why did he keep on underestimating her? He didn't' think it was sexism – wizards raised by muggles tended to make this mistake, and he made a very conscious effort to veer from that sort of thinking. He generally succeeded; he'd not underestimated Yagaratea. She'd only impressed him the first time, and afterwards he'd known to expect nothing but greatness from her.

But Miss Granger, she only ever went  _just_  above his expectations. He raised the bar slightly every time, and apparently it was still insultingly low for her.

It took exactly three drops to make Scabior terrified of his own shadow. However, afterwards, not a single word came out of his mouth.

"And now?" Tom asked her, displeased, as the man shook, curled against a corner.

Wasn't the whole point of the interrogation to extract information? In his state, he might not make sense of his thoughts even if he used occlumency.

"Now we wait for it to wear off," she said. At his unveiled look of utter disbelief, she added, "What, did you expect it to go differently?" the sweet, fake naiveté in her words was aggravating. She shrugged, and added, "If you  _force_  others to take action, don't be surprised when they don't do as expected."

Tom was certain she could feel his magic come undone – she flinched, and lost her self-composure for a second, but still she stood straight. She was scared, that was easy to tell; so why did she insist on defiance?

He wasn't sure if he was glad or furious. Glad, because he had always enjoyed a challenge, and God knew Theodore wasn't going to give him one. Furious, because he'd never mastered the art of graciously letting others disobey him. He wanted her to  _strike_ ; but he also wanted to  _win_.

"I don't particularly mind your brand of boldness," he said, closing the distance between them. She tried hard to keep herself still. When he stood barely an inch away from her, he added, "as long as it doesn't imply a  _delay_  in our schedule. I've mentioned, haven't I, that I'm not a patient man?"

She stifled a shiver and pretended his closeness wasn't unnerving. "Only about a million times," she said, though her voice faltered.

He let himself smile slowly –a controlled, completely manufactured smile; one that showed his teeth and was equal parts charming and terrifying. "Don't make me say it again."

She might have been daring enough to answer, but Yagaratea snapped her fingers and drew their attention. They both turned and stepped back from each other as the most exasperating woman he'd ever faced spoke.

"He's not lying anymore," she said.

The man she referred to –or what was left of him– laid crumpled on the ground, arms skinned all the way to his shoulders, bleeding out more slowly than one would have expected from his state. Magic, he supposed.

"Have you learned anything?" he asked her.

"Minister Umbridge isn't ruling over all of Britain, even if the Prophet would have us believe otherwise," Theodore answered, and passed him a list. Miss Granger unashamedly took a look over his shoulder. "This is a list of all cities and regions known to be currently hosting, or completely lost to, a Dark Wizard. The Ministry is officially calling them  _Guerrillas_ , even if all groups –or even individuals– are most likely disconnected."

Tom nodded as he skimmed the list. There were twenty of those  _Guerrillas_ known, and to fifteen of them a rather famous name was attached. The most worrying within that list was doubtlessly Morgan le Fay, who'd apparently taken over the whole county of Hampshire.

Other well-known wizards included Herpo the Foul, first ever to hatch a Basilisk and to create a Horcrux; or Ekrizdis, believed to be insane, the original owner of Azkaban. Theodore had also written, in an impeccable calligraphy he wholly approved of, that Leticia Somnolens had raised an army of inferi.

Of course, more than those fifteen may exist, hidden just like them.

"Hogwarts," he said, as his eyes encountered the name. "Taken over by Hereward?"

He would have asked if anyone knew the name, but Miss Granger gasped out loud after his question. Of course, he thought, it had to be her. She always knew  _everything_ , even when it referred to completely unknown, long-dead Dark Wizards.

Realizing everyone in the room had turned to face her, she flushed and said, "He's a known master of the Elder Wand."

Ah, perfect. Something else he was completely ignorant about.

"As in, the oldest wand in existence? The wand of an old man?" Yagaratea asked, equally confused. "Is my translation failing again?" she asked Theodore, who shook his head.

"One of the Deathly Hallows. Three items gifted by Death to three brothers: The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, the Invisibility Cloak," Miss Granger explained.

"The Tale of the Three Brothers?" Theodore asked. "That's a fairy tale," he said, dismissing the idea altogether. Tom wasn't so sure he should ever dismiss anything she said.

"The man who reunited the three hallows would become the Master of Death," Blaise explained to Yagaratea, who looked annoyed at again being the only one out of the loop.

"I swear, this mundane obsession with overcoming death…" she complained.

"You lived nearly four-hundred and four years," Miss Granger pointed out in a very prim tone. "I doubt that was a  _natural_  occurrence."

Yagaratea turned to face her, and both Theodore and Blaise held their breath. Tom unsheathed his wand, ready to defend the foolish girl – he still needed her. Too many of his questions remained unanswered.

"Fair point," she simply said, defusing the tension. "Perhaps I grew afraid with old age," she shrugged. "So, these Hallows are real?"

Miss Granger nodded. "I doubt they truly came from Death itself, but each of those objects once belonged to the Peverell brothers. And I know they're real because I've seen them all."

Theodore's brows shot up, and Blaise's eyes narrowed. "Together?" asked the latter.

"No. But I know of someone who did possess all three at once."

Oh, no. Not fucking again.

"Harry Potter," he guessed bitterly, and Miss Granger shrugged, a little smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

"Fuck," Theodore said. "He  _did_  come back from the dead! The Dark Lord killed him, and he came back!"

Ah, so he also came back from the dead. Of course, not at all unexpected. He supposed he'd taken three days, like Christ himself.

"Well," she glanced in his direction. He caught the meaning behind that look; there was more to the story. "Yes," she said to everyone else.

"And this Hereward person once owned one of them?" Yagaratea kept them on track, apparently not interested in the revival of Harry Potter. Or, most likely, opting to ask Theodore  _in detail_  later on.

"The Elder wand, said to be the most powerful wand to have ever existed. It's left a rather well-documented, bloody trail in history. If I remember correctly, Hereward killed his own father in order to master it."

He, too, would quiz Miss Granger regarding the topic. He had a feeling it must have played a role within their horcrux hunt.

"But he doesn't have it now, this overpowered wand," Yagaratea guessed. Miss Granger agreed. "Then that means there's only the one, common wizard standing between us and Hogwarts. We can go fetch the Quill and Book you told us about."

Hereward had the potential to be a fairly good wizard, given how he'd taken rule over Hogwarts. However, it was very likely that the Ministry was busy enough with all the different  _Guerrillas_  to have actively tried to recover the school. Morgan le Fay must be a far more pressing problem than where to educate children next year. Therefore, Hereward's ability to keep Hogwarts to himself might not mean much.

"We should return to Hogwarts," Tom agreed.

* * *

Hermione sneaked out of her room once night had fallen. She had no real reason to keep quiet, but the manor's stone walls reminded her of Hogwart's; she felt like she was skulking about after curfew. If Snape appeared from behind a statue with a swish of his robes, she wouldn't be surprised.

Mid-way down the stairs to the first floor she ran into Theodore Nott.

"Where are you going?" he asked her, half-asleep. He didn't sound accusatory, and she felt no need to lie.

"I need Scabior to answer my question," she said.

He grimaced. "You want to go in  _there_  again? There's a half-flayed man dying in that place."

Hermione was aware of it. She supposed she should be feeling something else at the thought –remorse, disgust, the moral obligation to end his suffering– asides from emptiness. That man, though, had imprisoned, killed and most likely raped people like her. He'd made a job out of it. He'd laughed at the thought of laying his filthy hands on Yaga and herself. Before the war, before seeing her people treated with unthinkable cruelty, she might have been able to muster some compassion. She found that she couldn't now; not for him.

Her recent inability to feel empathy left her feeling unsettled.

"You don't need to come," she told him. And then as the thought occurred to her she teasingly asked, "Or did Yaga send you?"

Nott blushed and huffed, "Shut up."

He still walked her all the way down to the cells. He rubbed his arms and complained about being cold, and sleepy and ' _fucking sick to his stomach'_.

"Why do you need to ask him  _now_?" he insisted, so petulant he reminded her of a young Draco Malfoy.

"The potion's wearing off," she told him. "Now's the perfect time."

Now, while he was already coherent, but still scared enough to listen to her demands. He would speak if only for fear she would dose him again.

"Draught of Fear." Nott had apparently been paying attention. Or his eyes had wandered in their direction while he avoided looking at Yaga's victim. "Why use that? Did you think a  _crucio_  wasn't enough?"

"Riddle was goading me," she answered through her teeth. The bastard. The manipulative arsehole; playing games, thinking himself so very much above everyone else. She refused to let him use her like a marionette. "He wanted me to  _crucio_  him, so I didn't."

Nott snorted. "You do realize that what you did to him is still torture," he said, almost a question.

"I –," she started, but whatever she meant to say was lost.

Yes, it had been torture. She'd left him in there immersed in a fear so extreme it ate the mind up; afraid to move an inch, enslaved to paranoia, terrified of the very air he breathed. For  _hours_. What she'd done to him had been worse than a crucio. She had defied Tom Riddle not because she was above torturing people; but because she pettily refused to let him use her as a toy. And so instead of being his game, she'd become a player herself.

She was playing against Tom Riddle, and Scabior was their board.

She felt suddenly sick. She stopped short, Nott barely managing to get a hold of her arm before her legs gave out.

"Sorry. Got dizzy," she said.

She didn't think he believed her, but he only nodded and said, "You need to eat more. Tilly worries you'll starve yourself into vanishing."

She laughed. "Tilly worries too much. She'll drive herself to an early grave."

Nott opted to escort her the old-fashioned way, taking a hold of her arm. He didn't care about manners like Riddle did, but he probably cared a good deal more about her falling and splitting her head open.

They reached the door and the slow creaking of metal against metal filled her with dread. She'd tortured a man. She'd done it only to prove a point. And the worst part was that now, instead of repenting, she would go into that cell and get her damned question answered.

Because Umbridge was a lot more important than Scabior.

"How did Umbridge know I was alive?" she repeated.

She'd even prepared a small speech, just in case. About how they could do this again; about how she'd come and ask every day and let him drown in his nightmares if he refused to answer. It was a good thing Scabior did, after all, yield. If she opened her mouth again, she might throw up instead of lecture.

The man's eyes were eerily empty, his fingernails gone –judging by the marks against the walls, he'd scratched until they'd fallen off– and his face and hands covered in traces of dry blood. She tried not to think about it as she waited for him to stop shaking long enough to be able to answer.

"Your body was missin'," he just said.

It took her a few seconds to realize he didn't plan on elaborating. Not because he was still resisting, but because  _that_  was apparently the explanation. Which was absolutely preposterous.

"Yes," she said, her voice acquiring the slight hysteric edge of when someone was being way more obtuse than she expected. "Along with another hundred bodies. The Ministry knows they were used in the ritual." She turned to Nott, as if he somehow held the answer. "It was in the Prophet!"

He just raised both his hands in a calming gesture. "It was," he agreed.

She turned to Scabior again. "Well? Does Umbridge think everyone's still alive?"

She had all the power of the Ministry –the Aurors, the Unspeakables– and had had access to Hogwarts after the battle; there were pictures in the  _Prophet_! The ritual circle remained painted on the ground. How could she not know what had happened? Impossible.

Scabior looked genuinely confused. "No. There was this ritual, and them kids, and so many people –," he shook, hugging his knees, rocking his own body back and forth. He whispered, "they were used to bring back the  _dead_."

Now  _she_  was the confused one. Umbridge knew, then?

Scabior went on, avoiding eye-contact, shaking like a leaf, "Then the ones who weren't used, some people were dead. We got them bodies outta Hogwarts," he said. "Few managed to get out alive, got to the Ministry. And then, only you and a couple," he caught his tongue just before speaking, swallowed harshly, and said, " _others_  were missin'."

She'd been trying to follow his reasoning, and it simply made no sense. How on Earth did they distinguish from who had been used to revive a Dark Lord and who was genuinely alive and on the run? He'd said her and a couple others. Did he mean Theo and Blaise? No, that made no sense. They couldn't possibly know who –

And then it downed on her. The way Scabior had held back before saying the word; the way he'd said  _others_.

Umbridge –the Ministry, filled with Death Eaters and sympathizers– didn't think  _she_  could be used to revive a powerful witch or wizard. Harry, Ginny, Professor Lupin – All her friends, whose bodies had disappeared, they could have been used. But not her. Never her. Not possibly her.

Not the  _mudblood_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theo's praise of Yaga is from Nikita Gill's "She wears strength and darkness equally well, the girl has always been half goddess, half hell." Made me think of Yaga straight away.
> 
> Sorry for the long time between updates. I hope you still remembered what happened before now… Thank you all for the nice comments and support, nothing makes me happier!


	5. A First Threat

**Dark Lord Who. Ch. 5: A First Threat**

Tom had mixed feelings regarding their trip to Hogwarts.

The timing seemed excellent; further questioning of their Snatchers had confirmed his suspicion that the Ministry was far too preoccupied with the more active  _Guerrillas_  to care about Hogwarts. And, given the number of unpredictable foes roaming free, there was no way to know when the situation might change for the worse. He'd rather take action while Hogwarts seemed approachable.

On another hand, an admittedly embarrassing,  _sentimental_  part of him would prefer to keep his memories of Hogwarts as intact as possible. The last look he'd had at it, more burnt rubble than majestic building, had been dampening.

Be that as it may, he'd never been prone to maudlinness.

Tom strived for greatness, and nothing else would suffice.

To achieve the recognition he deserved and the political power he was entitled to, he'd once devised a careful, long-term plan. Followers of influence, gained through a careful balance of praise and intimidation; fanatic supporters that would die to defend the purity of their blood. He'd been tangling them in his web – Malfoy, Nott, Rosier, Avery; any family with enough weight and sufficient lack of ethical principles – for seven years.

Well, it had all been for nothing.

To be frank, he was rather miffed that he'd had to suck up to a bunch of substandard wizards with an ego too big for their robes, and got nothing out of it. All those parties acting like Slughorn's little trophy, all the smiling at professors, all the extra homework on topics as dull as  _dried nettles_.

More like, he was fucking pissed off.

Thankfully, though, the world he'd been abducted into didn't require the same tedious, time-consuming methods. No, this world was engulfed in  _chaos_. He could let the Ministry drown itself in its fight against too many foes. He could let the rest of dark wizards take each other down while hiding in the shadows.

And at the end, when the time came, he only needed to take down the last evil standing and be acclaimed as a hero. Yagaratea could be used in the fight, and Miss Granger could be used – as a known icon of resistance – to give himself a conveniently pious aura.

However, perfect execution of the plan required very precise timing; which in turn required  _information_. Hence why going to Hogwarts was strictly necessary; Miss Granger's idea of the Book and Quill was worth pursuing.

"Tom," called the soft, deceivingly honeyed voice of the Devil incarnate. "Are we leaving yet?"

He would never understand how she managed to sound breathless and demanding at the same time. If Yagaratea were an animal, she'd probably be a permanently purring cat; or perhaps a permanently purring, very deadly  _nundu_. Well, as long as he managed to keep her in his –

_Wait_.

"What in Merlin's name are you wearing?"

Yagaratea frowned and looked down, "This was inside the wardrobe you and Theodore keep on insisting I use," she defended.

"Yes, in the  _undergarments_  drawer, I'd bet." He refused to believe a lace camisole would have been considered proper outerwear in medieval Russia. It barely covered anything that required covering.

And Russia was  _cold_.

She seemed confused. "What's an undergarment?"

He was  _almost_  certain she was having him on. What was it with the women in that house and their insistence on opposing him? Why couldn't they see the importance of decorous dressing, or of efficient torture?

"What you wear under your garments, of course," Miss Granger said, joining them in the back parlour, which was slowly becoming their standard meeting point.

Tom let his eyes close and willed himself to remain calm. They were about to head to Hogwarts, perhaps to engage in duelling with an unknown number of foes, and they could not afford any inside scuffles right before departure. And yet Miss Granger and Yagaratea seemed to have joined forces in order to provoke him.

"And speaking of garments, Miss Granger –" he started, still trying to avoid looking in her direction. Somehow, the bold clothes looked more offending on her figure; he must have gotten used to Yagaratea's immodesty.

She had the gall to scoff, "You didn't expect me to get into a duel in a Victorian dress, now, did you?"

Yagaratea nodded, picking up a tea cup and taking a long sip, "These frilly dresses you boys want to put us in are not designed for combat, Tom. They're designed to make very quiet, still-sitting women look fetching."

Blaise and Theodore joined them at last, both dressed impeccably as always, though it was poor consolation.

"Anything you choose to wear, Lady Yaga, makes you look fetching," Blaise said as he bowed deeply. Yagaratea smiled back at him, pleased.

"How did you get Tatters to fetch you  _jeans_?" Theodore asked Miss Granger, surprised. Tom did not miss the way his eyes checked her tightly clad legs, though it was obvious Yagaratea's choice of attire drew the boy's attention for far longer.

"I have my ways," she answered, evidently proud of herself.

Tom already felt his patience running very, very thin. He took a deep breath and chose to ignore the issue, despite how bothered he was that they looked like a rich group of young  _procurers_. With a bit of luck, they would not run into anyone worth impressing.

"Let's just go," he snapped, and everyone but Yagaratea tensed at his clipped tone.

As he followed Theodore and Blaise outside, crossing the vast gardens in order to apparate away beyond the wards, he heard Yagaratea and Miss Granger converse casually.

"Why's everyone calling me  _Lady_  Yaga?" she asked. Tom would like to know that too, given how he had yet to be called Lord by anyone in their small group.

"Blaise insists," Miss Granger answered. It made sense: Blaise was the only one truly concerned about propriety; too bad he had chosen to side with the woman.

"Huh." Yagaratea seemed not to care much about it beyond a casual curiosity, which made Tom overly conscious – perhaps even embarrassed – of his eagerness to be addressed by a proper title.

"I'll call you just Yaga if you prefer," Miss Granger offered.

"Please do," Yagaratea quickly agreed. "With you, it doesn't even feel kinky."

Tom had the terrible feeling she would enjoy having  _him_  call her Lady Yaga much more than he cared for.

* * *

Hogwarts somehow looked smaller with half its walls in ruins. Blaise wasn't a sentimentalist, and the physical state of a building meant to him little more than an increase or decrease in its potential value; but even someone as pragmatic as himself felt bothered by the sudden decline of such grandeur.

They had split into two groups rather naturally, as if all of them knew who belonged to whom. Theodore had shown the barest of hesitations, but one coquettish side glance from the woman they had somehow sworn allegiance to had been enough to force his choice. Foolish Theo, doubting still when their Lady had already claimed a hold of him with her sharp claws.

Not even Riddle had assumed they would follow him.

They sat outside the Library, standing guard, while Lady Yaga ransacked the place. Granger had been the first to think of the books – of course – but the other two had quickly agreed that they were a priority. Hogwarts held the most important collection in all of Britain, and even if Theo's house hosted the most gruesome volumes of Dark Magic, it was lacking in many other important fields of knowledge.

As none of them knew much about The Book and Quill – unlike Riddle and Granger – they had opted to head to the Library.

Blaise had returned from drawing warding runes – following Lady Yaga's precise sketches – to find Theo sitting against a column, right outside the Library doors. He had most likely finished his side of the corridor faster; he'd always been the most scholarly of the two.

"What are you reading?" he asked, because it didn't look like the cover was leather, nor the pages parchment. It was a weird, evenly squared book. Even the print looked rather unnatural.

Theodore blushed before giving an answer, which was always a sign of something good coming.

"It's a poetry book," he said casually, trying hard to get them both to pretend he wasn't turning beet red.

"A poetry book," he repeated. "The world is burning all around us and you suddenly develop an interest in  _poetry_?" That was unlike Theo, even if he'd always had a softer heart than himself.

"No, I – Well, I just, you know." No, Blaise didn't know at all, so he waited. "I don't have the same flair you do," he confessed in a stutter, "for the ladies."

Blaise's eyebrows shot up and he had to smother his laughter, else Theo might choose to go silent and he'd miss the chance to see that story to an end.

"You're reading poetry for the ladies," he repeated, amused.

Theo huffed, and closed the book, "Lady Yaga's fond of it."

Blaise burst out laughing, unable to hold himself back any longer. That was why he was friends with Theodore; no one else managed to be so awkwardly amusing without even trying.

"Pretty meaningless if it doesn't come from within," Blaise told him, sitting down by his side and trying to sneak a peek inside the weird book.

Theodore snapped it shut before he could, and told him, "It comes from within; straight out from my innermost desire to  _survive_."

Blaise laughed again, and a silly struggle to gain ownership of the book – which, thankfully, no one witnessed – started between them. Their childish antics were interrupted by a soft, airy voice.

"Boys," she called from inside the Library, and they both sprang up, tensing instantly at the thought of being caught having a fist fight on the floor. "Come in if you're finished, and give me a hand," she said.

They went in as if nothing had happened, and were startled by the sight. Of course, they both knew the Hogwarts Library was vast, but seeing all the books piled up in the centre and the stands pressed against the walls gave them a whole new perspective on its dimensions.

"These are the non-delicate ones," she told them, "shrink them freely and store them in this bag. I'll take care of the Dangerous Section," she miscalled it. "Don't mind the discards over there," she waved her hand in the direction of a badly-piled mount of books.

Blaise thought it was good Granger wasn't there, or she'd be having a heart attack right about then.

They made short work of it, quick and efficient, with Theo shrinking and him levitating. From their position, they could hear Lady Yaga dealing with all kinds of books – some of them screamed, and he deduced one had attempted to bite her. He wondered if it had survived its daring try, or if it would join the trail of burning things Lady Yaga tended to leave behind.

" _Theodore_ ," she called in that soft, chilling, almost purr, "come here."

Theo threw him a pleading, helpless look and Blaise shrugged. He told him to go with a quick wave of his hand, and his friend looked betrayed. But, really, as if they had any choice. Blaise turned around to deal with the last of their loot, eager to leave the creepy, half-ruined building he had once almost died in.

When he finished he approached the pile of discards curiously – which books did their Dark Lady consider useless? He laughed out loud as he picked  _From Cauldron Cakes to Knickerbocker Glory_ , and tried to imagine the woman cooking something. Unlike his mother, she didn't even need the skill to mask poisoning – Lady Yaga had magic to spare.

He opened it and read on how to bake custard tart, surprised it actually sounded easy. Well, not like he had ever cooked anything, he wasn't one for –

A searing pain tore through his shoulder and he screamed, falling to the ground. He groaned, the pain unbearable, almost blinding. He clutched his shoulder, finding warm blood, his arm already wet. It hurt too much for him to try and make a move for his wand.

He gasped, taking in air, seeing stars, and froze when he noticed the man looking down on him.

"You wouldn't happen to know where my son is, would you?" he asked him.

* * *

Yagaratea was disappointed in the so-called  _impressive_  Hogwarts library. Where were the old Dilmun rites? The treaties on Aztec sacrificial magic, with its intricate Nahuatl chants? The wandless spells that had shaped life itself in the old and rich Babylon? The potions already brewed in the Nine Provinces during the Xia dynasty? The secrets of blood magic, unveiled by the Russian hags?

Only remnants of the Roman Empire founded magic in modern Britain, it seemed. Most of the current tricks weren't more than  _speaking_  Latin while waving a wand around – no wonder they needed a  _thousand_  different spells. Wizardkind had forgotten the power of  _intent_  and abused the crutch of  _specification_.

Magic had changed.

" _Theodore_ ," she called, "come here."

Why this particular section was called  _Dangerous_ , she did not understand. It was rather mild in content, and certainly underwhelming in peril.

"Yes?" the boy called, carefully coming closer.

Just the sound of his voice – wavering, uncertain – made her smile. If only the men her mother had used to keep around had been so delectably delicate, she might have developed an early interest in marriage. Thankfully, none of her mother's dirty brutes had attracted her over the exciting pull of pure  _magic_. She owed her prowess to that fact.

"Your personal collection seems to overlap with this one," she said, lifting a heavy book dedicated to raising the dead. "Would you pick the ones we don't own? We've no need for duplicates."

Theodore nodded. He took the book she handed to him, consciously avoiding touching her fingers, and her smile became broader. She turned, too focused on the few books she had never seen – a Treatise on the Mind, for example, seemed promising – to play with him.

Theodore worked around her while she spent time learning the novel concepts of Legilimency and Occlumency, the ways to penetrate the best kept of secrets: one's own mind. Fascinating, admittedly, this novel discipline – she would have to learn it.

"How common is it?" she asked, "To be able to read the mind?"

Theodore hesitated, "Great wizards have been known for their Legilimency," he answered. "The Dark Lord, for one. And there were rumours about Headmaster Dumbledore, and Professor Snape," he told her. "But I wouldn't call it  _common_."

Three wizards he could name were indeed not many. Interesting, though, that Tom was amongst them – or would he be, future tense?

"Shall we practice, some time?" she asked him, and enjoyed the way his hand faltered, sending  _Famous Fire-Eaters_  tumbling down to the floor.

"Legilimency?" he squeaked.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she asked, walking closer to him, "what I'm thinking?"

She stopped in front of him and raised a hand, ran her thumb over the edge of his mouth, let her tongue dart out to lick her lips. She rather liked their game of  _innuendo_ , and she certainly appreciated his blushed cheeks.

She thought he might not answer, his reticence brought by a mix of timidity and fear, and yet he surprised her once more by admitting, in a raspy whisper, "I would."

They locked eyes, and she felt fire crawl up her skin. He did fear her, but his desire outshone any dread – she could tell by the warm feel of his cheeks. He, too, must be enjoying their slow dance of seduction; he, too, must be wanting to go further than little word games. The thought warmed her – quick and sharp and electrifying – more than she expected it would.

She stood on her tiptoes, unusually aware of the coldness of the stone against her bare feet, startling in contrast to her heat. He lowered his head and she could tell how his heart was beating faster, how he wasn't even breathing. Their lips met in a soft brush as none of them made any effort to move further, simply revelling in the feel of each other's plump warmth. And yet, despite the apparent gentleness, the gesture was anything but innocent, for there was promise in it.

She slowly let her tongue out, wetly caressed his lower lip. His eyes closed and his eyelashes fluttered; he groaned, inhaling her air. And then, just as they were both ready to act on the heat pooling within them, a terribly sharp cry cut through the silence.

They jumped away from each other. Yagaratea didn't bother paying attention to whether Theodore was battle-ready or not before running out, already summoning her wand to her hand. From the door of the Dangerous section they could already see the intruder, carelessly standing in the middle of the room as if he hadn't dared to  _interrupt_  them.

She knew a strong wizard when she saw one, but the thrill of the imminent fight was overshadowed by her rage. She hadn't learnt much from her mother – their styles were too different; Yagaratea thought her dependence on mind-altering potions a weakness, and Ježi had never bothered to hide she found her love of fire unwomanly – but one single thing had stuck.

No one laid a hand on  _her_  men.

* * *

Theodore could feel the blood drain from his face – his head felt lighter, the room wobbled all around him, and the floor seemed to scurry away from his feet.

Blaise laid on the floor, unmoving. A white-haired springy man dressed in rags stood over him, boot-clad feet red with blood – it wasn't his own.

He felt childish for an instant – a couple days after the battle of Hogwarts and he'd already relaxed enough to forget the feel of impending danger. He was ashamed to admit he'd felt secure hiding in Yaga and Tom Riddle's shadows, as long as they seemed disinclined to hurt him themselves.

Their world wasn't safe, though – their monsters were only two of many.

"Young Miss," the man addressed Yaga, giving a short bow, "You wouldn't happen to know where my son is, would you?"

He spoke politely and yet something in his voice, an unnatural stillness, sent shivers down his spine. His eyes were crinkled and his smile made his face dimple, yet the expression didn't manage to convey any cheerfulness; it veered more toward the side of  _eeriness_.

Yaga's hand didn't even twitch, not a single muscle in her moved, but the tension in the room increased tenfold – it was a sort of denseness in the air, an unexplainable heaviness, something that made his tongue taste acidity and his skin prickle.

Perhaps Theo couldn't recognise it, but the man certainly did. His eyes widened, and his stiff smile faltered – he moved away a fraction of a second before the ground he had stood on caught on fire.

"Go to Blaise," Yaga told him, and he rushed to obey.

As he kneeled beside him, red quickly soaking through his robes, he could only thank the Carrows for having instilled in him the need to learn a few notions of healing magic. He just hoped they'd be enough to deal with such a serious-looking injury; Blaise's shoulder was cut so deeply the arm might as well have been completely severed from the body.

Yaga walked to stand in the way between them and that man, and he felt safer.

"Who are you?" she asked him. Theodore had never heard her voice take on such a cutting, harsh tone.

Unexpectedly, underneath Theo's shaking hands, Blaise's skin stirred, trembled, stretched and slowly expanded to knit itself together. Theo knew it wasn't his own doing – accidental magic was a thing of the past for him. And Blaise was certainly unconscious.

"I want to find my son," the man repeated. "And I don't believe there's a need for introductions," he said, raising his wand.

"Godelot," Yaga guessed, and Theo remembered having read the name in the Snatcher's report. Granger had told them about his story – murdered for  _greed_ , for the power of the Elder Wand.

The man faltered, his eyes narrowing.

Blaise's cells were forming, reattaching; his wound slowly becoming smaller.

"You know me," Godelot said, voice slow, calculating. "Have you heard my name from  _him_?"

His wand was raised, and yet Yaga's wasn't. Perhaps it was a trick to appear non-threatening, to let Godelot proceed with his questioning unrushed – and, meanwhile, she was using the time to wandlessly heal Blaise. Theo whispered a spell, trying to help. It was a poor substitution for a blood-replenishing potion, but he had none in hand; if he kept on casting it, now that the bleeding had stopped, he thought it might suffice.

"Perhaps I have," she answered without rush, "Has Hereward–"

The following sound was so loud that, for a moment, Theo thought the whole room had exploded. He was engulfed in a cloud of dust – or was it smoke? – so dark it might as well have become night-time. He covered his face and moved to cover Blaise's, but the black mist swirled and curled and turned to avoid them, leaving an almost perfect half-sphere clean and untouched. He could see only Blaise and himself, stranded within a circle large enough to sit but not to stand within.

Not a single sound came from outside.

He checked Blaise's pulse, and was relieved to find him warmer than he'd have expected. He thought it might mean his life was not in imminent danger, but perhaps he simply hadn't had enough time to cool yet. He mumbled the healing spell once more, inviting Blaise's bone marrow to generate red cells at a much faster pace than usual. That wouldn't be enough, though – he knew that about half of blood's content was pure water, he needed to hydrate him.

He heard Godelot's rough voice break the quiet, but he couldn't make out his words. Moments later, lightning struck through the misty darkness – a series interconnected flashes of light shining all around; an acrid, burning smell that was both strangely sweet and sickeningly dizzying. It made him want to never breath again.

Amidst the sharp, cutting lights, the high-pitched cry of a woman in pain tore through him.

His first thought was that Yagaratea, who he'd seen invoke darkness itself to eat a man alive, couldn't possibly  _lose_. But then he remembered that the girl was sixteen, and that Godelot had also been a famous dark wizard, and he clang to Blaise's arm, tasting bile at the back of his tongue, no longer sure whether his friend was cold or warm.

Then the dark mist froze.

It might have been hard to notice for anyone outside of their protective bubble, but the swirling and waltzing of the gas colliding with their barrier definitely stopped. And as quickly as it had appeared, it was sucked away as if inhaled by a giant, rushing at high speed toward a central point in the room, reminding Theo of the drawings of muggle  _black holes_  Professor Sinistra insisted were real. In half a second it had condensed into a shape so black it didn't reflect any light, not allowing Theo to make out its features further than a clear-cut silhouette.

A terribly large silhouette.

The thing stood behind Lady Yaga. It growled. It seemed to crawl in a disembodied, uncoordinated, almost animalistic – if the animal in question had had multiple bones broken – way before launching forward, jumping over her, barking as it searched for their enemy.

Theo could breathe again once he saw she was still standing. Yaga lost no time watching her creation – she aimed her wand in the direction the beast had gone, and casted in a language that sounded Slavic, but was certainly not like the little Russian he knew. Flames sprung to life out of the tip of her wand; a sea of fire crawling up the walls. Theo felt the heat scorch his skin and worried the air would burn his throat dry.

When the flames subsided only half the library was intact; the rest now black ashes surrounded by black walls. On the other end of the room Godelot still stood, his robes intact and unburnt. His arm, though, was bleeding profusely. Yaga cursed an old word that sounded  _foul_ , and the two dark mages clashed again.

Theo did his best to ignore the exchange of spells – some cold, some hot, some dark, some so bright they blinded him – and summoned a book from inside the bags he and Blaise had filled to the brim.  _The Basic Guide to Healing for the Young Witch and Wizard_  might not have saved anyone's life in a long time, but Theo needed something  _easy_  enough to cast correctly at a first try. And how complex could a hydrating spell be?

Yaga shrieked with rage and chanted a strong, fluid, Chinese-sounding spell. The air around them shook. Godelot screamed a curse back. Theo flipped the book open, looking over the table of contents with shaking hands, searching for a spell that sounded just right. A purple cursed flew right over his head. Yaga called Godelot a rather unladylike word. Godelot answered accordingly.

Theo found the spell – page three-hundred and ninety-two. Yaga made the ground shake so hard the pile of discarded books came tumbling down, scattering all over the floor. Godelot forgot all about fanciness and started betting heavily on the killing curse, his speed increasing drastically. Theo cast the healing spell despite the little steadiness of his wand movements, and he chose to believe Blaise looked a bit better. Yaga answered Godelot's change of tactics by conjuring a large rabble of black butterflies – a spell she had already used against Raczidian – which intercepted the green rays one by one and kept falling to the ground, dead.

Godelot set the butterflies on fire. And boy, was that a  _bad move_. Lady Yaga was made of flame – as Blaise said, she'd been to Hell and back, and had probably run the place even down there. The fire burned red at first, and then black with the colour of its fuel – it turned against Godelot and, in an instant, consumed him whole.

After his soul-shattering scream of terror, only the soft creaking of the flames was left.

Yaga turned to them after watching his charred body fall. She looked tired as she walked back, her face dirty with ash, her white camisole grey, burnt and ripped all along the sides.

"How is Blaise?" she asked.

"Alive," he answered, voice still shaky, raspy.

She kneeled down at his side. She set her open palm on Blaise's chest and closed her eyes, then nodded. He supposed it was a good sign. What certainly wasn't was the way her other arm – the left – lay limp against her body, marked with bright red Lichtenberg figures; the shape of lightning.

Yaga caught his worried look. She took his chin with her uninjured hand and gently made him raise his head. She kissed his cheek.

"The  _son_ ," she promised him, "we will catch alive. We must find out how this man bypassed our runic wards."

* * *

Hermione did consider the pros and cons before trying to summon the Invisibility Cloak, but in the end the chances of Riddle leaving her alone were dim and she couldn't know when another opportunity would arise. His greedy eyes followed her every move, and it was evident he could tell there was something of particular interest in the fabric, even though she'd taken care to summon it non-verbally.

"May I?" he asked her, when the soft material reached her fingers.

She handed it over, knowing too well he could take it away by force if he so wished. Why waste her time with futile resistance? She'd rather Riddle have the Cloak than an unknown foe – or, God forbid,  _Umbridge_.

"The Invisibility Cloak," he said, a wondrous sort of fascination colouring his usually controlled voice, as he tried it over his shoulders. "Another of the Deathly Hallows."

Hermione nodded. "Harry dropped it in the last battle," she admitted. "I hoped nobody would have picked it up, thrown as it was amongst the rubble."

He didn't give it back to her, which wasn't unexpected; in possession of it, anyone became too dangerous. He folded it carefully and stored it inside his left pocket – she took note of it, just in case. It never hurt to be prepared for any eventuality.

"Where's the Headmaster's Office now?" he asked her.

"Seventh floor, last I knew. It shouldn't have moved before the summer," the room had the annoying habit of changing location every now and then. She didn't know if it was a safety measure – rather pointless, since a student was bound to end up summoned there sooner or later, and the changes weren't frequent enough – or just Hogwart's idea of  _fun_. After all, most of the stairs shared the habit.

Climbing up proved difficult when the Castle was half in ruins. They made it to the fourth floor twice before having to go down to find an alternative path – corridors and whole wings here and there had been demolished, and they didn't have any brooms on hand. Hermione did think they could levitate each other to the upper floors, but avoided suggesting it; they lacked the trust to make it work.

"Other places may be worth checking," Tom suggested as they reached the fifth floor for the first time. "Asides from the Library, I mean."

Hermione frowned. "I don't think there's anything left to take from anywhere else," she admitted. At Tom's brow-raise of disbelief, she blushed slightly and admitted, "I already emptied Slughorn's and Snape's offices of useful items right before the Battle."

Riddle laughed, and his eyes shone as he realized, "The Draugh of Fear."

"Yes," Hermione admitted. "Snape's possession. I'm not that good at potions – can't possibly brew it myself."

"Don't sell yourself short, Miss Granger," he told her, voice soft and playful. It was a charming tone on him. "I believe you're a very capable witch."

"How could you possibly know?" she asked, sceptical. She recognized easy flattery when she heard it, and was certain Tom hadn't seen enough of her abilities to make such a statement.

Riddle smiled – that slow, pleased smile that made his lips shift so slowly they inevitably drew your eyes. She became wary.

"I've been wondering, you see?" he told her. "About Potter, about his ability to get out of any situation both unscathed and victorious. How was he truly, the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, the Slayer of the Basilisk, the Great  _Harry Pott_ er?"

The way he said the name, a bitter blend of drawl and overacted awe, reminded her of Severus Snape. As they were approaching his office, she remembered the last time she had been inside – she'd been looking for Harry all over, hoping against hope he hadn't gone to hand himself over to Voldemort, only to find a pensieve with Snape's memories swirling inside.

"You'll understand my reluctance in believing a child capable of defying the Dark Lord." He went on, sidestepping a fallen suit of armour. "I asked for a second opinion on his  _talents_."

She could guess rather easily, "Theodore."

"Indeed," he admitted, and she huffed. "According to Theodore, Harry Potter was a  _remarkable_  Quidditch Player, but a terribly average wizard," he said.

"Harry Potter," she answered, jaw tensed, voice harsh, "was the best man I've ever known."

_Average_  was everything Harry hadn't been.

"The goodness of people doesn't mean much to me, Miss Granger." He smiled at her, "you know that. What I'm interested in is  _skill_. Goodness alone doesn't defeat evil, no matter what Dumbledore enjoyed saying." He was clearly waiting for his words to have an impact but she forced herself to remain as unperturbed as stone. "Theodore tells me your Professor Snape thought that Potter was a foolish brat, who'd managed to survive thanks to a combination of luck and loyal friends much more talented than himself."

That prompted a reaction out of her – she was surprised.

"Who are this friends, Miss Granger, Snape spoke so highly of?" He returned to that teasing, yet warm tone. He wanted her to know he was praising her.

She shook her head, "Snape despised me – he had nothing good to say of my skills."

Tom laughed, "Snape was a spy, Miss Granger. An actor, a liar, and if Theodore tells the truth, a very bitter man." He paused to force rubble to reposition and reform a rather damaged flight of stairs. He gestured for her to go ahead, and she rolled her eyes as he went on, "The kind of man who took bitterness out on others, and in a situation that could excuse him for doing it to you."

Hermione frowned, realizing the truth behind his words. Snape could get away with being a terrible person – particularly to the  _overachieving_  muggleborn – with the excuse that it helped paint his Death Eater mask. Dumbledore would have allowed it, since it served his plans well; Snape had tricked everybody, even Voldemort himself, thanks to that attitude. It didn't mean, though, that he hadn't enjoyed picking on students.

Her thoughts must have shown in her face, for Riddle's smile became smug.

"Don't allow the words of such a resentful man to haunt you. The opinions of the dead are meaningless, Miss Granger – only the living are of consequence. And  _I_  believe," he said, pausing at the top of the stairs in order to stare straight into her eyes, "that there's a reason  _you_  are the one who survived."

Hermione averted her gaze, unwilling to give him a chance to read her thoughts. She walked on, the gargoyle – now, in the absence of any designated Headmaster of Headmistress, permanently allowing the entry to the tower – already in sight.

"Why're you so intent on flattery today?" she asked him. "It doesn't suit you."

He laughed, the louder, surprised laugh she had come to identify as real. She stopped and turned around, wondering what he found so very funny.

"You always manage to amuse me," he told her, half a smile in his handsome face. She thought he was telling the truth, but with him it was always hard to be certain. "Go ahead, Miss Granger, let's find the Book and Quill and leave all the  _flattery_  for a later occasion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been ages hasn't it? Hope you remember something of what happened before…
> 
> "She'd been to Hell and back, and had probably run the place even down there" is adapted from a poem by cwpoet (Caroline White): "She's been to Hell and back. And something about that smirk on her face tells me she is the boss down there, too."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Sorry this had no beta. Feel free to point out any errors you see, and I'll fix them. I'm writing this one when I run out of inspiration for Coven, so updates aren't likely to be regular. Still, I find it fun, so I'll keep on writing. Thanks for reading!


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